


Shadows Find Me

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Miscarriage, Misogyny, Multi, Post-Divorce, Prequel, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Divorced, jobless and kinless, Korli Clever-Hands shares a cart ride to Riften with a handsome, persuasive redhead who might just have a little work for her. She damned well knows he belongs to the Thieves' Guild but in Riften, only the poor or powerful can be completely honest.Brynjolf's trying to staunch the flow of luck and money from the Guild. The beautiful Kreathling lass with the sharp eyes might just be the ally he needs.Neither of them expected that the shadows might just be where she belongs as civil war looms ever closer over Skyrim.





	1. Away

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts, drug/alcohol use, religious conflict, misogyny, classism and mentions of torture, imprisonment, miscarriage, rape/non-con and genocide. This is set during and after ‘A Dark and Sacred Vengeance’ and will occasionally reference events from that story. AU elements to the Thieves’ Guild storyline.

 

“I need your signature.”

            Proventus Avenicci had to repeat himself twice before Korli could sign the piece of parchment with a shaking hand. Once her signature was on the decree, Gorran added his scrawl. Balgruuf had already signed before the Holdmoot and it would be for Avenicci to seal it under the gaze of six Nords of good character and reputation.

            “Let it be known to Whiterun Hold that Gorran Barley-Beard, land-holding franklin of good family, has sought and received a divorce from Korli Clever-Hands, landless churl of no known family, due to infertility on her part,” the hook-nosed Cyrod announced for all the Holdmoot to hear. “As it is no fault of hers but instead the will of the gods, the settlement is set at one half of the payable divorce fee, which is set at one year’s wergild for the dependent spouse. If there are any reasons why this judgement should be challenged, speak now or forever be silent.”

            Of course no one spoke out. Gorran was now one of the most eligible bachelors in Whiterun, due to inherit a Thaneship, prosperous farm and successful brewhouse, and there wasn’t a clan in residence who didn’t have an unmarried daughter or widowed dependent to marry off. After the traditional minute passed, Avenicci clapped his hands and called for the next case.

            Korli sat on a hard wooden bench and waited for the Holdmoot to be over so she could be paid and dismissed. Balgruuf was setting more fines than usual this Holdmoot, no doubt because High King Istlod was demanding a heavy wergild for the murdering madman who turned out to be a relative of the Emperor. Among the Jarls, wergild was always paid in hard coin, for the Empire accepted no less from its subordinate nobility.

            Carlotta Valentia leaned over and squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. “You’re welcome to come and stay at my place for a few days,” the Cyrod woman whispered.

            “I appreciate it, but no,” Korli replied just as softly. “I think I just want to leave Whiterun behind.”

            “I don’t blame you. Gorran could have adopted an heir from Honorhall. Plenty of kids going without family.” The greengrocer shook her head in disappointment. “I thought better of him and Dagmar, I really did.”

            “Hereditary Thaneships pass easier to heirs,” Korli said with a sigh. “Dagmar’s thinking of Gorran’s future after he’s gone to Sovngarde.”

            “You put in as much at that farm, probably more, as Gorran,” Carlotta said. “The new ale recipes, those goats…”

            “I’m sure Gorran’s new bride can handle them. I left detailed instructions for their care.” Korli’s mouth twitched upwards in something too brief and pained to be called a smile. “I hear Alfhild Battle-Born’s the frontrunner.”

            “Olfina’s even odds, but we both know she’s got her heart set on Jon Battle-Born,” Carlotta observed. “Do you think Vignar and Olfrid are gonna get over that big argument from last month?”

            “After Heimskr’s death and Olfrid’s public praise of the deed? We’ve got more chances of dragons returning,” Korli said bitterly. “You know the Grey-Manes are maternal kin to Ulfric Stormcloak.”

            “It’s gonna boil over soon. I just wonder which one will light the fire.” Carlotta sighed. “Come to my stall before you leave. I’ll send you out with a pack of food. Least I can do for you.”

            “I appreciate it.” The pack would be day-old bread, fruit that was going a little soft and cheese that was getting a little mouldy, but it was food she wouldn’t have to buy. Her settlement was the equivalent of a half-year’s basic wages for a churl, not even enough to pay the rent on a shack and garden plot outside the walls for a year.

            “Where are you planning on going?” Carlotta asked.

            “Away.” Wherever the first carriage she paid for went.

            “Ssh,” Nazeem hissed. “Some of us are trying to pay attention.”

            Carlotta rolled her eyes but said nothing.

            The rest of the Holdmoot passed without incident and Korli rose from the bench stiffly, getting in line behind the people due to give or receive money. Dagmar handed over a heavy pouch of coin that Avenicci split in two before shuffling off, not even giving Korli a glance. Probably wishing he’d married Gorran to Alfhild Battle-Born instead of trying to save money on a bride price by having his step-nephew marry the foundling left at his farm just after the Great War.

            When it was her turn, Avenicci dispensed the hundred and eighty septims with an almost pained expression. “Sign here,” he said, having her put her mark in his book of accounts.

            She tucked the purse in her chemise and walked out of Dragonsreach without looking back.

            With everyone at the Holdmoot, the marketplace was empty. Korli filled her waterskin at the well and waited by Carlotta’s stall for her arrival. It was late afternoon and the sun hung heavy in a brazen sky that promised fair weather on the morrow. The goats would be brought into their corral right about now and the men at Barley-Beard Farm would be coming in for dinner.

            She blinked back the tears. Crying never changed anything. Not the dimly remembered mother who left her at the farm, not the ten years of marriage that produced nothing but bloody sheets and failed babies, not the divorce that left her jobless, homeless and clanless.

            Carlotta arrived before the dusk turned purple, handing over a small rucksack full of coarse rye bread, apples with only a few soft spots, and a half-wheel of eidar cheese. “Sure you don’t want to stay the night?”

            “Positive. I don’t think I could stand to see the farm anymore.” Korli sighed and hugged the Cyrod woman. “Thank you for being my friend. Zenithar bless your works.”

            “And yours, my friend.” She hugged hard. “Safe journey.”

            She just made the night carriage. A handful of septims saw her given a seat next to a prosperous Rifter churl in rabbit fur and across from an auburn-haired mercenary in well-worn but good leather armour. It appeared she was off to corrupt, unlovely Riften.

            Korli wrapped her thin wool cloak around herself and pulled the hood up to conceal the tears. Crying never changed anything but at least it was too dark to see her misery.

…

Brynjolf was bored. The job at Honningbrew went well and he even had a nice little decanter for Delvin to add to the trophy shelf, the Holdmoot made the planting of a stolen ruby in Nazeem’s farmhouse and the acquiring of a certain heirloom from House Grey-Mane a breeze, and he’d even scammed two hundred septims out of the desperate Sabjorn. But now he was stuck in a slow wagon with some self-righteous prick from the Jerall Mountains who sneered at him for his Reacher-red hair and rosy-fair complexion and a strikingly attractive Kreathling woman who was too busy crying silently to notice anyone else. So he leaned back on the thin leather cushion and cold read the other passengers as if he was going to con them. Maybe he would in the case of the mountain churl.

            Mountain Lad made a big deal of the fact he could afford furs when most Rifters wore a loose woollen overgarment that was somewhere between mantle and blanket, wearing an impractical rabbit-fur cloak lined with cheap linen. He was readily taken in by flash over substance, judging by the silver-plated brass cloak-brooch and ring set with a glass ‘ruby’, and combed his hair forward to conceal a receding hairline. Either a slightly prosperous churl or a poor land-holding franklin. If Brynjolf were scamming him, he’d sell a fake potion promising virility or maybe a false hair-growth tonic of something disgusting like goatshit.

            Kreathling Lass wore garments of good wool, undyed but well-made and decorated with bands of simple embroidery in unbleached mammoth wool. The few signs of mending were only noticeable to a keen eye and her soft leather boots were solid yet well-worn. Her hands were callused and the right one was tattooed with symbols of fertility and safe birthing. Judging by the small pack at her feet and the silent tears, she was a recent divorcee, probably for infertility, one who would be vulnerable to a romance con. Brynjolf never pursued those; it was an insult to Mara and no man wanted to piss off the Goddess of Compassion and Love if he ever wanted them in his life.

            The rose-gold glow of dawn woke him up from a light doze. Mountain Lad snored like gravel caught in a hand-mill while Kreathling Lass huddled miserably under her dark wool cloak, wiping now and then at her eyes. Beautiful eyes despite being teary and red; a vivid blue-green with gold rings around the pupil.

            “I’d say good morning,” Brynjolf said dryly, “But figure the company.”

            She let out a weary half-amused breath. “I’ve slept through worse.”

            “No doubt. Whoever he is, may his next bride give him seven children, one for each of the mortal sins.” Brynjolf figured he’d try to jolly her into a good mood. Or at least a less weepy one.

            Her next breath was almost a laugh. “Is that a curse from the Reach?”

            “Nah, lass. I save the good ones for people who personally offend me. My favourite, seeing as I’m from Riften, is ‘may you find the bees and not the honey’.”

            Her generous mouth twitched. In the dawn-light, she was olive-bronze, her black braid falling over one shoulder and tied off with a neat little bow. “I hope that’s not prophetic for my time in the Rift,” she said in a low alto that bore the Whiterun burr.

            Brynjolf smiled slightly. “That depends on what you plan to do, lass.”

            “Honest work, I suppose.”

            “Honest is a little different in Riften, lass. I know of a few ‘honest’ merchants who cheat on their spouses, their taxes or both.” Brynjolf regarded her warningly. “In Riften, only the very poor or the very powerful have leave to be completely honest. If you want a simple life, stop off at Ivarstead or Shor’s Stone. Handsome lass like you will have the pick of the lads.”

            “Yes, until they figure out I’m infertile and clanless,” she said bitterly. “My own mother couldn’t be bothered to send me to Honorhall. She dumped me at a farm. Why would any respectable man want me?”

            She shook her head and wiped at her eyes once more. “I’m sorry. You’re trying to be kind and I’m taking out my unhappiness on you.”

            “Don’t worry about it, lass.” Brynjolf smiled wryly. “I take back what I said about your former husband before. May his next wife be a spendthrift and her seven children fathered by the neighbour down the road.”

            That got a chuckle out of her. “You are a wicked man.”

            “I’m from Riften, lass. Haven’t you heard? The wickedest city in Skyrim, it is.” The wagon trundled along the road through the Jeralls. They were close to the border between Falkreath and the Rift.

            The churl next to her snorked and snorted. She sighed and glanced away from him. “So, what are the prospects for an alewife or weaver?”

            “Don’t even bother trying to set up an alehouse. Most of the Rift are mead-drinkers and Maven Black-Briar cracks down on any brewing above village level. If you can sew, weave and spin, there might be a position in the Jarl’s household for you, but Harrald and Saerlund have grabby hands. Hemming and Sibbi Black-Briar are even worse.”

            She wrinkled her nose. “Lovely. My marriage settlement didn’t even leave me enough to buy a lap-loom and wool.”

            “There’s always Eastmarch if you don’t mind the cold,” Brynjolf suggested.

            She shuddered. “Eastmarch isn’t an option.”

            That was fair enough. Ulfric and his family sucked the joy out of life in Eastmarch. “If you know a little herblore, there might be some work for you. Nothing fantastic and you’d have to be willing to deal with the Thieves’ Guild. When you think about it, you’d need to be willing to deal with them in Riften if you want to prosper.”

            “I don’t make poisons,” she said bluntly.

            “Ah, at most I use a sleeping potion on an overly watchful guard, lass. We leave the poisons to the Brotherhood.”

            Her mouth twitched again. “I thought you were a Thief.”

            “Oh?” If she had good instincts…

            “Your armour’s well-worn but it doesn’t quite fit you properly. A veteran mercenary would spend his last coin on well-fitted armour instead of relying on something that’s been scavenged.” At his arched eyebrow, she almost smiled. “I grew up around the Companions and learned a few things from observation.”

            “Next time I go travelling as a sellsword, I’ll stop by your house and make sure my disguise is up to muster,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “Anything else?”

            “You’re too well-groomed to go with that used armour. I’m guessing you usually pretend to be a wealthy churl or moderately successful franklin. Let your beard grow out a bit, muss that long red hair of yours or braid it sloppily, and you’ll look like a cheap merc.”

            “Noted.” Brynjolf’s smile was almost a grin. “You might fit into Riften better than I expected.”

            She sighed. “I hope so. I don’t really have anywhere else to go now.”

            They fell into silence as the mountain lad awoke. Brynjolf lay back on his seat and watched the dappled shade of the trees thoughtfully. He’d have to keep an eye on this lass. She might be more use to the Guild than he originally thought. Maybe their luck was beginning to turn after all these years.


	2. Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Breton braid = French braid.

 

The first arrow killed the carriage driver. The second killed the horse. The third struck the side of the wagon, quivering where the red-haired Reacher’s head had been moments earlier. Korli threw herself under the seat as a fourth was fired, loose fletching whistling in its flight, and heard the choked cry of the Rifter sitting next to her.

            “Where the _fuck_ did that mercenary go?” demanded a rough Kreathling voice. “I just saw him in the wagon.”

            “Find him,” ordered a Rifter accent in hard tones. “And make sure of the two in the wagon. Neither of them look worth the ransom.”

            Korli deliberately breathed slowly until her heartbeat was no longer racing. Then she cast Stoneflesh, hardening her skin, as a greasy-haired brigand climbed onto the wagon and thrust his sword through the Rifter savagely. She reached out, grabbed his bare ankle above the leather shoe-bag with both hands, and cast Sparks until his smoking twitching corpse fell over.

            “The fuck?” blurted the Rifter, followed by an ugly gurgling.

            “Fucking amateurs,” the Thief said disgustedly. “Lass, you alright?”

            Korli crawled out from under the seat, shoving the dead Kreathling aside. “Yeah, but the driver and the other guy’s dead.”

            “Ah, just means a longer walk to Riften.” He was calmly pillaging the dead archer of anything valuable. “Take what’s useful. They don’t need it and we’ve a few days’ journey ahead of us.”

            “We’ll bury them, right? There’s a shovel on the wagon.”

            “Of course, lass. Shame about the horse. We could have ridden him.”

            It wasn’t the first time she’d stripped and buried someone, let alone four of them. Korli closed their eyes, removed their gold and jewellery, and wrapped them in their cloaks before rolling them unceremoniously into the shallow hole she’d dug. “Kyne breathe you in and breathe you out again,” she said simply.

            “We’ll let the guards know in Ivarstead,” the Thief said. “They can salvage the wagon and tell the families if they want.”

            They walked along the road for a while before Korli stopped to vomit as the reaction caught up to her. It could have been her lying by the side of the road with no one to miss or mourn her.

            The Thief held her braid to the side and gave her some water when it was done. “You get used to it after a while,” he told her. “But it’s a state of how bad things have gotten that bandits are brazenly breaking the Guild rules.”

            “You have _rules_ for bandits?” she asked once she’d rinsed her mouth out.

            “Aye. Don’t rob the carriages is one of them.” He shook his head in disgust. “If I had a colleague or two of mine with me, I’d search for the nearest bandit camp to make an example. Sadly, I don’t, and while you handled yourself well back there you’re no stalker or fighter.”

            “You’re right,” she admitted. “I just…”

            He patted her on the shoulder. “You’ve had a hard few days, lass. I should have been watching for an ambush.”

            He helped her to her feet. “Let’s go. Ivarstead’s surrounded by bears and it’s nearly dusk.”

            Their trip to Ivarstead was interrupted by a troll that Korli managed to frighten away with a firebolt to the face. The bodies of two soldiers in Eastmarch’s blue-grey lay sprawled under the outcrop. “Stormcloaks,” the Thief said in disgust. “The Old Holds are crawling with them.”

            They followed the stream until it reached the river that surrounded Ivarstead on two sides. Above them rose the Throat of the World, its peak wreathed in mist, and the lights of Ivarstead were visible from here. “Nearly there, lass,” the Thief encouraged. “By the way, my name is Brynjolf.”

            “Korli Clever-Hands,” she replied.

            It was dark by the time they reached the Vilemyr Inn, a small homely place that catered to the pilgrims walking the Seven Thousand Steps or buyers looking for lumber. The tiny inn was crowded with the village’s inhabitants, rural churls wearing checkered blanket-mantles in undyed goat’s wool, with a Niben-man and a Bosmer breaking up the monotony of drab earth-toned Rifters. Brynjolf made his way to the counter where the innkeeper presided, pulling a half-dozen bottles of Black-Briar mead tied neck-to-neck with twine from his pack. “Would this buy a room for me and the lady?” he asked with a slight smile.

            “Oh, certainly, certainly! We don’t see Black-Briar mead out this way often.” The innkeeper led them to a room where a double bed with a straw mattress and slightly worn furs held pride of place. “I’ll throw in some food for you and your lady. Nothing fancy, just a little stew, bread and cheese.”

            “It’s appreciated,” Brynjolf replied. “I should tell you that the carriage won’t be coming in tonight. Bastard bandits ambushed it on the road just past Haemar’s Pass and looted the poor driver and his three passengers. They were gone by the time we got there but…”

            “I’ll report it to the guard,” the innkeeper said with a sigh.

            “Do so. We gave them as honourable a burial as we could manage, but neither me nor the lady are priests.”

            “You’re a good man. Maybe it’ll get some of the guard off their arses instead of drinking all my mead.” The innkeeper nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

            “If any recognisable belongings turn up in the marketplace, they won’t be tracked to us,” Brynjolf murmured in her ear. “It might also see the guards save us the effort of cleaning up the trash. Few bandits work in groups less than four or five.”

            Korli nodded. That made sense. “So, uh…”

            “You get the bed. I’ll lay out the bedroll.” Brynjolf unrolled the heap of furs he’d taken from the wagon and laid it out on the flagstone floor. “You hungry?”

            “No.” Korli suppressed a shudder.

            “Then get some sleep. We’ll grab our free meal in the morning.”

…

Brynjolf woke up to Korli humming as she combed out her long black hair. She’d given herself a wash while he was asleep and done her best to brush the dirt from her woollen dress. How did she manage to move quietly enough that he didn’t wake up? Thieves were light sleepers by necessity.

            He rolled out of the bedroll and rose, stretching everything until he was limber. Korli glanced once in his direction before returning to her hair, which she very quickly put up in a Breton braid and tied it off with a neat bow. “There’s stew, bread and cheese on the table,” she said, nodding in its direction. “I wouldn’t ask the origin of the meat or the age of the bread and cheese.”

            Brynjolf grinned at her and inhaled everything left for him. The stew was thick and gluey, the bread dry and coarse as the Alik’r Desert, and the cheese wasn’t speckled with mould because it was Eidar. Typical of an isolated village inn, really. He’d eaten worse as a child though.

            By the time he was buckling his leather armour on, Korli was ready to go, her small pack swung over one shoulder. She’d politely averted her gaze the whole time he’d washed and dressed, which nearly made him grin. Modesty was generally the first thing to go in the Cistern.

            They thanked the innkeeper kindly and left the inn, the gloriously blue sky overhead promising a fine day. Outside of Ivarstead, Korli remarked, “He skinned you. That mead was worth more than a bed and a meal.”

            “If I’d bought them, aye,” Brynjolf said with a smile. “But Maven gives the Guild the poor mead or the stuff that’s gone sour. It’s Black-Briar but it’s piss compared to the good stuff.”

            “You still overpaid.”

            They walked for a while longer before Brynjolf asked, “Where’d you learn magic? I know a few townsfolk who dabble in sorcery but most churls fear it.”

            “I learned a little before I was abandoned,” she said with a bitter twist to her lips. “It was _why_ I was thrown out. Grandpa feared magic and my mother didn’t want me anyway.”

            “Some people are right cunts, aren’t they?”

            “I suppose so.”

            It was another hour or so before she spoke again. “So this alchemy work. Would it entail?”

            “It depends on what you know. The odd quack potion, any kind of invisibility brew, healing and stamina potions… If you prove yourself, we’ll have you make up the Guild’s own special recipes for steady hands, quiet feet and a silver tongue.”

            “I won’t make false healing or disease-curing potions,” she said firmly. “I won’t let someone die because I’ve given them false hope.”

            “Wouldn’t expect you to, lass. We have some rules in the Guild and the first of those is not kill people for anything less than self-defence. Bodies are hard to hide and guards harder to bribe when murder’s involved.”

            “Hit a man over the head and take his stuff, they call you a warrior worthy of Sovngarde,” she said dryly. “Pick his pocket and leave him none the wiser, they call you a thief.”

            “Aye,” he agreed wryly. “Our standard rate’s about five septims per quack potion. Our last lass made it from mora tapinella and scaly pholiata, then diluted it with water. Harmless, gave the drinker a bit of a second wind, and we were able to sell it for twenty septims each.”

            “What happened to her?” Korli asked quietly.

            “Ingun? Oh, she’s getting married next month, and her ma’s expecting her to stop ‘wasting her time with brews’ as she puts it. Elgrim’s relieved too because she’d go through his entire stock in one day and he had to clean the alchemy table every time because she’s obsessed with poisons.” Brynjolf shook his head. “She’ll either wind up in the Dark Brotherhood, married to a series of wealthy old men who drop dead a year or so after the ceremony, or both.”

            “Lovely,” Korli drawled.

            “You think Ingun’s bad, wait until you meet her mother Maven and her brothers Hemming and Sibbi.”

            “Riften sounds like a wonderful place with the Black-Briar clan in it.”

            “Don’t worry, lass. If you’re associated with the Guild, old Maven will let you be. She’s stuck with us through thick and thin but knows when not to ruffle our feathers.”

            They walked for a few more hours without incident. They were coming to Riften from the north end of the lake. Even in winter the aspen forests were a glory of golden-browns, little snow falling in the Rift thanks to the Jerall and Velothi Mountains. Korli was picking likely flowers and mushrooms, stuffing them into the pockets of her apron. Elgrim was always happy to buy anything she made that the Guild didn’t use. Even if she was only an amateur, she could make a reasonable living in Riften.

            “How long were you married for?” Brynjolf asked, breaking the silence.

            “Ten years. I was eighteen and he was the nephew of the farm’s owner. They’d taken me in and raised me, so there was no need to pay a bride portion, and the divorce settlement was cheaper because I had no land or clan.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “The woman he’ll likely marry is a good one. I don’t wish her ill and I understand where he was coming from.”

            “Now that old hag Grelod’s dead, he could have adopted an heir from Honorhall.”

            “It’s easier to pass an inheritance to a blood-heir. I suspect there was Hold politics involved too, because the Jarl was very quick to sign the decree. His uncle’s a Thane and so’s the father of the most likely candidate.”

            “Hard on you though.” Brynjolf gave her a sidelong glance.

            “Yeah. But what’s the point of railing about it? Tears don’t change a thing.” Korli sighed again and looked at the smudge of grey-brown on the horizon that was Riften. “How’d you become a Thief?”

            “I could spin the old yarn about a war orphan having no choice, which would be something resembling the truth, but most of it was because I wanted to be rich and rob from the lowlanders who came to the Reach, killed my parents, overthrew the true Reach-King, and sent me to Honorhall to become a ‘true Nord’,” Brynjolf admitted with just a trace of bitterness. “I had a grandmother and cousins who could have taken me in, but they were Reachfolk and didn’t count in the eyes of Ulfric and his fucking Stormcloaks.”

            “I’m sorry,” she said with simple sincerity.

            “Ah, it’s not your fault, lass. I’ve had the pleasure of robbing the Palace of the Kings once or twice.” He grinned at the memory. “The best time was when I stole the Stormsword’s underwear and ran it up with the banners. Gallus was ready to murder me, but it was totally worth it.”

            “That’s an image,” she said dryly. “Were they woven from the hairs fallen from Talos’ holy head?”

            “Nah. Bog-standard linen. Really. It was that cheap horrible stuff from Hjaalmarch.”

            “Maybe the flax was from where Talos took a piss or something.”

            “It’s possible. From what I remember, most of Ulfric’s hearthmen were too busy pissing themselves laughing to get them down.” He grinned at her. “I hear there’s a song or two about it to this very day in the Grey Quarter.”

            She smiled slightly. “I wish I’d seen it.”

            “You’ve met the woman?”

            “Sadly, yes.”

            Her tone brooked no more questions on the matter and Brynjolf complied. Most Kreathlings couldn’t abide the woman and barely tolerated Jarl Dengeir. It was probably nothing more than that.

 


	3. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Some head-canon for the Guild, including that Nocturnal is worshipped under the name Lady Luck, though it’s been forgotten.

 

“Once we’re inside the gates, lass, I’ll be leaving you. One of the other rules of the Guild is that you need to find your way to the Ragged Flagon through the Ratway.”

            They were now past the mer-run farm on the lakeshore and coming up to the stables. Korli hoped there were public benches in the city because her legs and feet ached from the long walk. She’d resigned herself to working part-time for the Thieves’ Guild as an alchemist; depending on her success there, she could open a small stall for more legitimate business. If she could get her hands on some wool and tools, she could start weaving again…

            _One step at a time,_ she reminded herself. Brynjolf was sympathetic and even kind, but he was a rogue first. His loyalty was to the Guild and its troubles. So long as she was useful, he would support her. At the moment, that use was measured in her skill as an alchemist.

            The guard let them through the gates without incident. “I’ll see you soon,” Brynjolf murmured in her ear before disappearing into the crowd. She was alone in the most corrupt city in Skyrim.

            Riften was as unlovely as the stories painted it. Weathered grey-brown wood formed most of the buildings and winding, twisting walkways over a stagnant canal that smelt of things worse than fish. Most of its inhabitants were tight-mouthed and wary-eyed, hands on pouches as they scurried around. The blanket-mantle was still popular here but the colours were more varied, if still muddied in comparison to the bright garb of the Plainsfolk Korli grew up around. Argonians and Dunmer were scattered through the crowd and she even saw a Bosmer in fine goat’s wool walking beside an older grey-haired Nord.

            Korli took a deep breath and walked towards the marketplace. Brynjolf was setting her a test, to see how she could adapt to a new city and find her way around. She was halfway down the street, past the man and woman complaining about Riften’s corruption, when a dark, dour Rifter in steel armour too well-fitted to the thug he appeared to be stepped in her path.

            “I don’t know you. You in Riften lookin’ for trouble?” he growled.

            “The only thing I’m looking for is work,” Korli said quietly.

            “That so? Well, I got news for you; there's nothing to see here. Last thing the Black-Briars need is some stranger stickin’ their nose where it doesn't belong.”

            “As I said, I don’t want trouble with the Black-Briars, the Jarl or anyone else in Riften,” she replied, biting back a tart tone.

            “Good.” The lout folded his muscular arm. “The Black-Briars have Riften in their pocket and the Thieves Guild watchin' their back, so keep your nose out of their business. Me? I'm Maul. I watch the streets for 'em. If you need dirt on anythin', I'm your guy... but it'll cost you.”

            Given Korli was going to be making potions for the Guild, she decided to be polite to Maul. She rummaged around in the beltpouch full of bits and bobs she kept for simple trades and as a sacrifice to pickpockets before drawing out a pink agate carved into a flattened eight-sided diamond. “How much dirt would this buy me?” she asked, holding it out on her palm towards him.

            Shock momentarily flashed across his face before he assumed his habitual smirk. “Only way you could have found one of those is by stealin' it. Guess you'll fit in around here better than I thought. So what do you want to know?”

            She’d actually received it as a gift from Dagmar on her wedding day, a little trinket he’d found on his travels and claimed to be lucky. Some luck it had brought her. “Know anything about the Thieves’ Guild?”

            “You kiddin'? My brother Dirge works in their hideout. I used to run with them myself, but took a job with Maven after they started hittin' a rough patch. If you want to get in on that action, find Brynjolf in the marketplace.” Maul nodded to the gem still in her hand. “Or show that to Vex in the Ragged Flagon. She’s got a few others just like it and everyone who gave her one turned out to have a knack for the shadows.”

            Korli tucked the crystal back in her pouch and pulled out a tarnished silver ring set with a garnet cleverly cut to conceal its flaws. “My valuer in Whiterun told me this should be worth a night’s worth of drinks at the inn. Please take it as a thanks for your help.”

            Maul plucked it from her hand and put it on, admiring the stone. “Good cuttin’ on it.”

            “Yeah. The garnet’s flawed though. My ex-husband took it in trade for a dozen bottles of beer.”

            “I love folks like that,” Maul admitted with a grin. “Did you lose him for his stupidity?”

            “Sadly, he divorced me.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Ah well. New city, new life.”

            “Stay on Maven’s good side and you’ll prosper,” Maul said. “I’ll see you around. Want any more dirt, I’m at the docks most days.”

            “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” Korli nodded and walked across the bridge, passing the svelte black-haired Eastmarcher demanding money from a hapless Redguard youth. She rounded the Bee and Barb to enter the marketplace, which was nearly as diverse as Whiterun’s, and even had a Dunmer selling ‘fine Telvanni goods from Morrowind’ and an Argonian selling ‘genuine Saxhleel jewellery’. She stopped by the Dunmer’s stall and asked, “Where’s the alchemy shop?”

            “Down by the canal,” he said. “Be careful. It’s dangerous down there.”

            “Thanks and I will be.”

            Underneath the main city, the canal walkways reeked of rotting wood, fetid algae and brackish water. She was just about to enter Elgrim’s Elixirs when a young black-haired woman stepped out. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

            “It’s alright. I wasn’t expecting someone to walk out the door.” This had to be Ingun Black-Briar.

            “I wasn’t expecting someone to walk in. Most people in Riften would rather buy Brand-Shei or Bersi’s marked-up potions than come down here.” Ingun smiled a little shyly; far from the black widow interested in poisons Brynjolf painted her to be. “I’m Ingun Black-Briar. It’s nice to meet someone else with an interest in alchemy.”

            Korli bowed slightly. “Korli Clever-Hands. I was an alewife and weaver, so my knowledge is limited to basic potions, beer and dyes.”

            “Elgrim’s an excellent teacher. I wish I could spend more time with him before my wedding.” Ingun sighed. “Mother expects me to waste my time with politics once I’m wed into the Snow-Shods.”

            Korli blinked a little. “Didn’t one of the Snow-Shods go crazy and stab his bride?”

            “Asgeir. There’s some indications he was poisoned or bespelled, the poor man, but he’s been declared feeble-minded by the Temple and put into care. I’m marrying Unmid, the younger brother and huscarl to Jarl Laila.” Ingun sighed again. “It’s strange how the herbs which we use to heal can also harm us.”

            “It’s how Kyne made the world. She breathes us in and breathes us out.”

            “You understand. Do you work with poisons too?” Ingun was smiling shyly again.

            “No. Could you imagine the uproar if it got out that an alewife could make poisons? Even if I were so inclined, my business would be ruined.” Korli shuddered as she recalled one accident back at Barley-Beard Farm. “Once, someone decided to make a stew with swamp fungus and imp stool because they didn’t know their mushrooms. Thank Kyne I knew how to make poison antidotes or – well, several people would have died.”

            “Paralysis,” Ingun said authoritatively.

            “Yeah, I know. Ever ground dried mudcrab chitin and skeever charcoal in a hurry? I didn’t find out about the cause until I was sent to wash the dishes.” Korli shook her head. “We nearly lost our Thane and half the bloody workforce.”

            “Mudcrab chitin and skeever charcoal? For poison cures I use beehive husk and garlic.”

            “Dried mudcrab chitin and the charred hide of a skeever make a potion that helps someone fight off poison and disease by giving their immune system a boost,” Korli explained. “It’s foul but it works. More importantly, it’s cheap. Sometimes, if someone’s really sick, I’ll include blue mountain flower or wheat.”

            Ingun chuckled a little. “I think you give yourself too little credit as an alchemist, Korli Clever-Hands. Will you be staying in Riften? It would be nice to have someone else around who prefers herblore to politics.”

            “I’m hoping to stay here,” Korli said. “I, ah, might even end up with your old alchemy job if I pass Brynjolf’s test.”

            The Black-Briar girl clapped her hands. “Wonderful! I should probably swing by the Ragged Flagon and see if Delvin’s got that shipment of herbs in. I owe poor Elgrim a fair amount of nirnroot and nightshade. I’ll show you the route.”

            Korli smiled wryly. “Isn’t that cheating?”

            Ingun laughed. “Welcome to Riften.”

…

Brynjolf was walking into the Ragged Flagon, buckling up his jacket, when Korli and Ingun Black-Briar came in from the Ratway entrance. The ladies were talking about herbs, though Korli was focusing on the beneficial effects and Ingun the darker aspects, and for the first time the Black-Briar girl seemed happy. “-I didn’t see it like that,” Ingun was saying as they approached the seating area.

            “I was married for ten years to the nephew of a Thane. Even if you don’t play the game, knowing the rules can keep you out of trouble.” Korli shook her head, braid swaying a little. “I can’t speak for the relationship between you and your mother. But you can’t afford to be wilfully blind to everything except alchemy, not with the troubles up north.”

            Ingun heaved a heavy sigh. “I understand. I still think my mother wastes her time and wealth on foolish political ventures. She’s Jarl in all but name. Why isn’t it enough?”

            “I don’t know.” Korli spotted Brynjolf and raised a hand. “I made it.”

            “With a guide no less,” he said with a smile.

            “I have never met someone with a better understanding of practical alchemy and other household matters,” Ingun said with a smile of her own. “I think she’ll be a worthy successor to me.”

            “Maybe a little better, lass. You’re more interested in the experimenting while she’s more interested in getting things done.” Brynjolf smiled to take any implied sting out of his words. “The Guild needs workhorses at the moment, not fancy steppers.”

            “I understand, Brynjolf. Korli’s definitely competent. Not as skilled as me, but more than capable of making even the Guild’s special brews, and she doesn’t have my grand ambitions.” Ingun smiled a bit more. “Is it true the Dark Brotherhood are expanding?”

            “According to rumour, aye,” Brynjolf confirmed. “But can your mother and betrothed spare you, lass?”

            Ingun waved a hand. “Even if I don’t formally join, I’m sure I could benefit from an association with them.”

            The alchemist wandered over to Delvin’s table and sat down, talking about the batch of herbs she ordered in. Brynjolf glanced at Korli and nodded to a small table near the bar where Vekel was counting bottles of mead.

            “She’s something, isn’t she?” he murmured after they’d both sat down.

            “At least she’s honest about it.” Korli smoothed down her skirt over her knees. “So what now?”

            “We find you a little workspace. Probably in the Flagon itself. We’ve got an alchemy table in the Cistern that’s gathering dust and the lad who handles our magical needs is demanding we put in an enchanting table instead.” Brynjolf sighed heavily. Every time he returned to the Flagon, he was reminded of how dark and dismal it was in comparison to its heyday. “For the most part, we supply the herbs and you make the potions. I’d appreciate you not experimenting with our resources. Things are a bit, ah, rough at the moment and we can’t really spare too much.”

            “I heard something about that from Maul,” she admitted.

            “It’s just a bit of bad luck. Things are already looking up.” He smiled at her reassuringly.

            “How many potions do you want in a week?” Korli asked.

            Brynjolf rubbed his bearded chin. “The quack potions are more of a sideline, but they bring in good coin during the Holdmoot. Ten of them a week should be sufficient. Ingun could produce about twenty varied potions a week, so that’s the minimum. Hit your quota and the rest of the time is yours to use. You can even use the workspace for your own potions to sell topside, if you’d like.”

            Korli did some quick calculating on her fingers, counting numbers under her breath, and nodded. “So one hundred septims a week if I make the twenty potions. Is that based on what is sold or what is made?”

            “What’s made,” Brynjolf assured her. “Given what potions sell for in the shops, it’s cheaper to get the herbs and pay someone to make them, even if only a few quack potions are sold.”

            “At five septims a potion, I bet it is,” she said dryly. “Now, how expensive is rent in Riften? I don’t need a mansion but I’d like somewhere I can eventually set up a loom. I was the best weaver in Whiterun Hold and Jarl Balgruuf would regularly buy up every bolt I produced.”

            “I… honestly don’t know,” Brynjolf confessed. “I sleep in the Cistern with most of the Guild.”

            Vekel had wandered over with a couple bottles of mead. “I’ve got a spare pallet,” the innkeeper suggested. “If you don’t mind sleepin’ in the alcove we set up, you can even stay for free.”

            Brynjolf’s eyebrow shot up. “Since when do you give things away for free, Vekel?”

            “Since our new alchemist carries a Stone of Barenziah,” the innkeeper drawled. “Sapphire saw her try to pay Maul off with it.”

            “This?” Korli rummaged in her beltpouch and produced the faceted pink gem. Even in the dim light of the Flagon, it glowed. “I was given it as a wedding gift.”

            “In Guild lore, it’s said that anyone who finds and keeps a Stone of Barenziah is meant for a life in the shadows,” Vekel told her. “Vex is obsessed with finding all twenty-four, the crown they were set in, and the reported blessing from Lady Luck.”

            “Vex is welcome to it,” Korli said, putting the gem on the table. “Damn thing hasn’t brought _me_ any luck, near as I can tell.”

            “You’re here with some steady work and somewhere free to stay,” Vekel pointed out. “That’s some luck at least.”

            She flushed under the olive-bronze complexion. “You’re right. I’m just bitter from recent events.”

            “Her ex-husband traded her in for a younger bride,” Brynjolf explained. “His loss, our gain.”

            “I appreciate the offer and I will gladly accept,” Korli said to Vekel. “Tell me which alcove I’ll be using and I’ll give it a good scrub. Dirt in potions is a bad idea.”

            “The first one on the left,” Vekel replied. “I think I’ve got a mop and bucket around here somewhere.”

            “How soon can you get started?” Brynjolf asked her. “The Spring Holdmoot’s in six weeks and I’d like a nice supply of my patented Falmerblood Elixir.”

            “I’ll clean out and set up today,” she told him. “Get me the materials and I’ll start from tomorrow.”

            “Done, lass,” he said with a smile. “See? The Guild’s luck is already turning.”

            She smiled thinly but said no more.


	4. Accounts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

A solid half-day of work turned the alcove from a dingy hole in the wall to a comfortable niche not unlike the space she had back at Barley-Beard Farm. She took three crates and laid the pallet on them to make a bed at the back of the alcove, whitewashed the walls to lighten them and make it easier to clean, and used another four crates and three planks of wood to create a makeshift workbench at the front. Once the alchemy table from the Cistern was installed, she had a suitable workplace. All she needed was some hangings to conceal the bed and a snowberry wreath to honour Kyne.

            By the time Brynjolf emerged from the Cistern the next morning, Korli was scrubbing out the last of the reused potion bottles and had already lined up the ingredients for the quack potions on the bench. That was clever of Ingun to concoct a recipe that was based on a genuine potion and watering it down. The girl was more than competent enough to set up shop as an alchemist nearly anywhere. Why she wanted to join the Dark Brotherhood…? Korli supposed it was a morbid way of rebelling against and outdoing the redoubtable Maven Black-Briar.

            Most potions were decoctions or tinctures. For the sake of safety and convenience, Korli had decided to make the pholiata and tapinella mixture with water, and so she had the mushrooms soaking in clean water with the red mountain flowers she’d picked yesterday. A cold infusion would work just as well as decocting the potion and watering it down – and be a lot less effort.

            “What’s the flowers for?” Brynjolf asked as he leaned against the side of the alcove. At this time of day, only Tonilia and the face sculptor Galathil were awake and active in the Flagon.

            “Tonilia found an herbal in the Guild’s stores and it listed a recipe for magicka potions that involved tapinella mushrooms and red mountain petals.” Korli rinsed out the last of the bottles. “Ingun made a decoction from the ground dried mushrooms and then watered it down. You can make a cold infusion by soaking the ingredients overnight in clean water and straining it in the morning. Perhaps a little weaker than her method, but a lot less work for something you’re peddling for a quick septim.”

            “Aye. So it’s a genuine potion, only weaker?”

            “Something like that. I’m used to combining herbs in my cooking. My breakfast gruel is made from wheat sweetened with blue mountain flowers. If you were to grind both and decoct them, you have a powerful healing potion.” Korli grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the soaking mixture a little. “Back on the farm, I relied on hot and cold infusions, poultices and teas. I usually didn’t have the time to do anything fancier unless it was winter and I ran out of wool to work.”

            Brynjolf nodded. “So how long to make those quack potions?”

            “I’ll have the first batch of ten ready by tomorrow morning.” Korli glanced at him. The black leather armour he wore was much better fitted to his frame, the silver studs flashing even in the dim light. “Decoctions and tinctures take longer but I’ll easily make the twenty potions a week quota so long as you supply me with the herbs.”

            “We will, lass.” He nodded in the direction of the common area. “Let those soak for a bit and get some breakfast. You won’t need to work like a farmer here.”

            “I’m not made for idleness, Brynjolf.” She wiped her hands off with a clean rag. “I took the liberty of casting a water-purifying spell on that pool over there. I’ll have to do it every day but it should be safe to use for drinking and potions. Once I can get a couple water-purifying bone charms from up north, I won’t need to cast as often.”

            “I’ll remind Dirge not to piss in it,” Brynjolf said dryly as he led her over to a small table.

            “Please do. It’s hard to sell cold infusions if they taste like piss.”

            Brynjolf chuckled as they sat down. “Aye. Ingun had to sweeten her recipe with a bit of honey or yam sugar from Morrowind.”

            “The red petals are sweet enough to cover the sharp taste of the mushrooms.” Korli drew her belt-knife and began to cut the half-wheel of cheese already on the table into thin wedges. There was coarse rye bread too. Did the Guild buy their supplies or steal them?

            “Good to know. If you can think of a couple other recipes, we could use them. People are getting tired of the Falmerblood Elixir.”

            “Snowberry and purple mountain flower is a good blood-warming mix. Call it ‘winter blood’ or something.” She trimmed the rind from the cheese wedges neatly. Pity they didn’t have a pig or goat to feed the scraps too.

            Brynjolf was slicing some rye bread when Tonilia, who’d finished the bookkeeping, came over. “We have a problem,” she said.

            “Aye?” Brynjolf looked up at the Redguard woman.

            “We’re leaking money still. There’s about five hundred septims missing from the Guild’s common pot.”

            “What?” Brynjolf took the book from her hands. “There’s six people with access to that pot and we’re two of them.”

            “And Vekel knows better than to skim from there because I’d nail his nuts to the wall for it,” Tonilia said grimly. “That narrows it down to Vex, Delvin and Mercer.”

            Brynjolf’s mouth turned downwards. “If I make an accusation like that at the next Masters’ meeting, there’ll be bloodshed.”

            “Tell me about it.” Tonilia tugged at the knot of hair at the back of her head. “I’m going to start keeping a separate set of books. I’m going to need you to keep track of _every_ septim that comes in on day shift, even if it’s a clipped copper copy from County Bravil. Count it, put it in a private lockbox, and hand it to me at the end of the day and I’ll count it in front of you.”

            “Fuck, lass, I’ve got to run the potion dodge, manage Sapphire, Niruin and Rune, and count the coins at the end of the day?”

            “There’s no other way, Brynjolf. Coin’s going missing from the common pot and the treasury, and I can’t fucking ask Mercer to count every coin there. Shit, I get to ask Vex and Delvin this, and you know the former’s got no head for accounting and the latter probably skims.”

            “So let me understand this,” Korli said slowly. “There’s acceptable and non-acceptable skimming?”

            “If someone’s running a dodge or a deal, it’s expected that they take about ten percent for the effort,” Tonilia explained. “The problem is that once the rest of the money is surrendered to the Masters, it’s divided into several different pools, two of which are the common pot and the treasury. The common pot covers our everyday expenses. The treasury is where the collective wealth of the Guild’s stored and from which regular pay, major expenses and the yearly bonus comes.”

            “The two perfect places to skim a little extra,” Korli observed. “If you’re not watching every septim…”

            “Precisely. Five hundred septims is a hefty chunk that can’t be accounted for by poor haggling.”

            “And if you’re doing the Guild books, you wouldn’t be a poor haggler or an obvious skimmer.” Korli smiled a little wryly. “Back on the farm, I was responsible for much the same things you were. It’s one thing to keep a coin or two extra when you’ve been haggling for cheese…”

            “But another to steal one out of five coins from the housekeeping money,” Tonilia finished.

            Brynjolf rubbed his bearded chin. “Lass, I think every shift needs someone to keep the books that _isn’t_ the Master. That way we’re all covered.”

            “True.” The fence sighed. “I’m going to dump day shift books on your lady friend here, put Cynric in charge of evening and have Niruin do night.”

            He nodded. “Fine by me. Korli was saying she hates to be idle.”

            Tonilia grinned. “I bet she changes her mind.”

            “I don’t mind doing the books,” Korli said calmly. “I like to earn my keep.”

            Tonilia sighed. “The one honest woman in Riften works for us. Lady Luck is probably pissing herself laughing.”

…

By the end of the week, Brynjolf had completed two jobs in Windhelm – a bedlam run and acquiring some antiquities from the Shatter-Shields – and Korli was firmly ensconced in the Ragged Flagon. Rune had taken over the potions dodge in his absence and brought in forty to sixty septims a day from the Eastmarchers and Palers who travelled down to Riften to escape the harsh winters on the coast. Respectable enough, though his real talent lay in valuation and enchantment.

            Delvin was waiting for him in the Flagon after he’d handed the golden gauds over to Vex for transport to their new owner. “We got our first special request in a long while,” the Night Master said with a grin.

            “Oh?” Brynjolf snagged himself a bottle of mead. Over in her alcove, Korli was counting coins and writing something down in the day shift book.

            “Aye. So after you did the Honningbrew job, I sent Niruin and Thrynn to shake the golden boughs of Whiterun a little more. What d’ you know, Olfrid Battle-Born wants a favour of us because an old friend of his is wanted in Solitude for murder.” Delvin grinned broadly.

            “Is this a breakout?” Brynjolf asked, uncorking the mead.

            “No. Identity change. Arn got himself arrested for public drunkenness and Balgruuf won’t let the man out until he’s done his time or paid the fine. If Balgruuf actually gets back to his correspondence after the incident involving the Emperor’s relative…”

            “He’s fucked. Balgruuf will send him to Istlod in return for some leniency on the wergild.” Brynjolf took a drink. “And they call us thieves.”

            “We are. We’re just honest about it.” Delvin ran a hand over his shaven scalp. “I’m putting Cynric on it. That fine by you?”

            “It’s your job, Delvin. Put whoever you want on.”

            “Hey, you’re proving sharper than I thought with that accounting idea. Frees us up for the work we’re good at and we seem to have stopped the leak.” Delvin took a swig of wine. “Thank Luck your woman isn’t on my shift. She holds every groat until it squeaks, then manages to get a bit more out of it. Our food costs have dropped by ten percent since Tonilia put her in charge of that.”

            “She was a farmwife before she came to us, lad. You know they can make meals from a shadow when so minded.” Brynjolf watched Korli. She had an errant lock of hair that kept on falling into her eyes, which she absentmindedly blew away every so often. “How’s she fitting in?”

            “Well enough. Her version of the Falmerblood Elixir’s a little more popular than Ingun’s and she’s got an eye for fabric that matches Rune’s eye for jewels. Tonilia’s thinking of preparing her for a fencing role with the Khajiit because she’s on good terms with old Ri’saad.”

            “Aye?” That was impressive. The Khajiit were cagy cats.

            “Yeah. Turns out she was the wife of Gorran Barley-Beard. You know, the one who raised them fancy goats and produced the silk-wool that’s worth a fair bit?”

            “Really? She said she was a weaver…”

            Delvin’s smirk was evil. “Since the quality of the fabric’s gone down, Korli’s work is worth its weight in gold now.”

            Brynjolf smiled slowly. “See if you and Vex can spring a few bolts.”

            “Already on it. Balgruuf’s got it all locked up in his vault. Cynric’s gonna find a way in while he’s doing the old switcheroo with Arn’s identity.”

            “Excellent.” Brynjolf toasted him with the mead and went over to Korli. He was just checking on the lass, though she seemed to be doing well.

            “I’ve got two batches of cold infusion going at all times,” she said, gesturing to the two kettles next to the crates she used as a worktable. “One Falmerblood and one Winter Blood.”

            “They’re fake potions, lass,” he pointed out.

            “No, they’re genuine. They’re just weaker than you’re claiming them to be.” She stretched, arms behind her head, and Brynjolf swallowed some mead to wet a mouth gone suddenly dry. “I apologise if I overstepped the mark by taking over the food runs. I was getting a little stir-crazy down here and it lets me collect more herbs for the potions.”

            “Don’t be. Delvin tells me you’ve shaved off some cost.”

            “It’s the tail-end of winter. That means there’s a lot of cheese and dried vegetables getting a bit on the old side, so I’m grabbing some good bulk bargains. We consume everything before it goes from old to rotten.” She swung her braid back over her shoulder. “Then we’ll be getting fresh vegetables and greens come the spring. A couple of the Guild’s folk have bleeding gums, Brynjolf, because they don’t see enough sunlight. Cabbages aren’t tasty but they do fight off the bleeding gum sickness.”

            “She’s making us eat our greens, Brynjolf!” Delvin called from his table. “Can you believe it?”

            “If you want to be toothless by sixty, be my guest!” Korli shot back. “They’re your teeth!”

            “Next you’ll be tucking us into bed at night so we don’t get a chill.” Delvin paused and added, “Well, _I_ hope so.”

            “The only thing I’ll be tucking you into is your shroud after Vex stabs you,” Korli said sweetly. “I might even wait until you’re dead.”

            “Have I mentioned that I like her?” Vex yelled from across the tavern.

            “Not as much as Brynjolf,” Delvin grinned.

            Brynjolf choked on his mead. That fucking scum-bred Breton bastard.

            Korli flushed under her olive-bronze skin. “That’s because he’s more handsome than you, Delvin. They had to make you Night Master because you’re so bloody ugly you’d scare away everyone in daylight.”

            “That is hurtful and insulting… It might also be true,” Delvin said with a slight bow. “Lady Mara might have actually found a woman to keep Brynjolf on his toes.”

            “I better return to the books,” Korli said, flushing even darker. “They won’t keep themselves.”

            Brynjolf let her retreat into the accounting, settling for giving Delvin a filthy glare that the Night Master ignored. Just because Korli was on the rebound didn’t mean she wanted a relationship just yet. Maybe in a few months. But not right now.

            Dammit.


	5. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Two weeks had passed since her arrival in Riften and Korli was topside, enjoying the weak sunlight of late winter. The marketplace was bustling today and Brand-Shei had some dyes from Morrowind for sale, so she was currently chatting with the Telvanni scion about which ones would last the longest. The warm ochres, browns and golds of Morrowind were popular in the Rift and her current dress could use some redyeing…

            “Korli!” Ingun bustled up to her. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Where have you been?”

            “At the Flagon,” she admitted as she paid Brand-Shei for a sack of wheat-gold dye. “Or out at the farms.”

            “Oh. The Guild isn’t overworking you, are they?”

            “Kyne’s breath, no! If you want to have never enough hours in the day, work on a farm. If I wasn’t cooking, I was brewing ale and if I wasn’t brewing ale, I was working wool.” She turned from the Dunmer merchant, tucking her dye into her apron. “Harvest, slaughter-season and the sowing were the worst of it, because everyone had to be in the fields if you wanted to get everything done. I’m practically on holidays with the Guild.”

            “Oh. Rune and Brynjolf have been selling so many potions I thought you were working from dawn to dusk.” Ingun smoothed down her brocade coat. “I’m getting married in three weeks.”

            “I remember that. Unmid Snow-Shod, right?” They were walking towards the bench near the Bee and Barb.

            “Yes. He’s reasonably young, presentable and tolerable. He’s busy with guarding Jarl Laila, so I’ll still have some time to pursue alchemy.” She sighed. “Vulwulf’s not happy with it. He called Mother an Imperial whore at the Bee and Barb last night.”

            “He’s bitter over Asgeir going mad, I suppose.” Vulwulf was an ardent, outspoken supporter of Ulfric Stormcloak.

            “Maybe. He’s trying to get Egil Ulfricsson to consider marrying his daughter Lilija.” Ingun shuddered. “Lilija’s a lovely girl. She deserves better than that.”

            “I’ve never met Egil, so I can’t say.” This was going to be an awkward conversation.

            Ingun sat down on the bench and gestured for Korli to join her. She did so, wondering how she was going to tiptoe through this metaphorical field of runes. “His parents are edging towards treason. If I had the ability, I’d poison the pair of them and do Skyrim a favour.”

            “You know, I think a certain amount of tact is required for a poisoner,” Korli said dryly. “If either of them drop dead and word got back to Windhelm of what you said, guess who’d they blame?”

            “You have a point.” Ingun sighed and studied her hands. “It’s _frustrating._ I think I could be happy with Unmid, but Mother’s interfering. She keeps on telling me how to do this and what influence I should try to get in the Jarl’s court.”

            “Once you’re married, you’ll be setting up your own household,” Korli said carefully.

            “Oh yes, one subject to stipends from the Snow-Shod and Black-Briar families,” Ingun replied dryly.

            Korli inhaled and exhaled gustily. “You’re a good enough alchemist to make a living from it. Easily the equal of Arcadia in Whiterun and _she_ was the one everyone went to for their simples, including me when my potions failed. Only Danica the temple healer could fix more things. You have to decide how independent you want to be and whether the cost is worth it.”

            She smiled wryly. “Though cures peddle better than poisons in most circles. That’s what Rune and Brynjolf are selling – cold infusions that are like potions, but weaker.”

            “Wait, you’re not making potions and watering them down?” Ingun asked in some surprise.

            “No. I can soak the mixture overnight, strain it into bottles, and make a batch every day,” Korli explained. “Back on the farm, I didn’t have a lot of time to spend making simples, so I relied on infusions, teas and poultices for the most part.”

            “Ah. And here I thought you were surpassing me as an alchemist,” Ingun said. “That’s a brilliant idea and I wish I’d thought of it.”

            “I get the impression your education’s leaned more towards the theoretical while mine has been grounded in the practical,” Korli told her. “You know a _lot_ more about herblore than I, but I know how to make a few things very well and with minimum effort.”

            “That makes sense. I wish I’d met you a few years ago. You’re so practical about things.” Ingun sighed and wrung her hands. “Mother thinks only of coin and power, Hemming is too busy kissing her feet, and Sibbi is… Sibbi.”

            Korli grimaced. “I’ve managed to avoid meeting him. No offence, but I don’t want to get in trouble for slapping his face.”

            “You’re with the Guild and under Brynjolf’s protection. Sibbi knows better than to anger Mother’s golden goose.” Ingun smiled a little. “Maybe he’ll settle down with Svidi. She seems nice enough.”

            “Maybe.” Korli smoothed down her skirt. “You didn’t approach me just to catch up, Ingun. What’s up?”

            “Actually, you already gave me some advice.” Ingun’s smile deepened. “I appreciate it.”

            She rose to her feet as Maven began to approach. “Will you be coming to the wedding?”

            “I’d be honoured.” Where in Oblivion was she going to get a proper dress in three weeks?

            “Bring Brynjolf. I think my mother needs to recognise what the Guild does for her.” Ingun smiled. “I’ve also been hearing rumours about you two.”

            Before Korli could say anything, the Black-Briar girl joined her mother. Maven regarded Korli with a cold assessing glance, which was returned evenly. Then the matriarch nodded stiffly and took Ingun off in the direction of their manor.

            Korli sighed and rose to her feet. She better see if Tonilia had any fabric fit for a wedding outfit.

…

The wedding of Ingun Black-Briar and Unmid Snow-Shod was the affair of the season. The Temple of Mara had been opened up from top to bottom by Maramal and his acolytes, Maven and Vulwulf had tried to outdo each other with the feast set out on trestle tables in the Temple’s front yard, and the happy couple wore extravagant outfits of velvet and rare furs dripping with gold and gems. Flowers aside from mountain blossoms were thin on the ground, so wreaths of golden aspen leaves, purple mountain flowers and snowberries crowned their heads. It was more than a little gaudy, but it _was_ a Rifter wedding. When they flaunted their wealth, they _really_ flaunted their wealth.

            Brynjolf was comfortable enough in his sable-brown wool trimmed with tawny sabre cat fur as he lounged at a lower table with an excellent view of the high table. Laila Law-Giver was giving a slightly incoherent toast, given the amount of mead she’d consumed, but everyone banged their flagons enthusiastically. She was the Jarl until Maven decided otherwise, after all, and there were social niceties to follow.

            Korli sat next to him, clad in wool left its natural dark cream but embroidered with designs of muted teal and wheat-gold, a fox-fur stole around her shoulders. She’d declined the flashier silks and velvets Tonilia suggested, even though one bolt of brilliant turquoise would have looked stunning on her, in favour of the more subdued outfit. Even so, she stood out among the Old Holder wedding guests as much as Brynjolf did, and several guests were muttering about just who were these two interlopers and why were they here. Maven had told the complainers that they were business partners in an unspecified field and left it at that. Not a lie, technically.

            Laila’s toast ended and she raised the horn. “Hail!” she said before drinking deep. Then she fell back into her chair.

            Maven had barely suppressed her sigh of relief and was rising to offer her toast to the wedded couple when a commotion at the entry to the Temple grounds caught everyone’s attention. A bulky wheat-blond man in a bearskin mantle over grey-blue wool entered, accompanied by an athletic black-haired woman in carved totemic armour and a younger dark-haired version of himself wearing a sword that glowed the colours of the dawn. They carried a pair of rich gifts – a snowy bearskin mantle adorned with golden brooches and a black bearskin mantle adorned with silver – and walked very calmly through the tables to where the guests of honour sat.

            “My apologies for the late arrival,” Ulfric Stormcloak said with the rumble of distant thunder. “We ran into snow on the way.”

            “We weren’t expecting you at all,” Maven said pointedly.

            “Don’t be ridiculous, Maven! His boy might be marrying my Lilija. Of course I invited them since you forgot.” Vulwulf rose to his feet. “Ah, Egil. You’ve inherited your mother’s colouring and your father’s good looks.”

            Maven’s glare shortened Vulwulf’s lifespan to months instead of years before she managed to paste a smile on her face. “Sibbi, Hemming, clear seats for our… honoured… guests.”

            “Saerlund, do the same,” Laila ordered, sitting up in her seat. “I wish you’d sent word ahead, Ulfric. I’d have held places in the wedding party for you and Sigdrifa.”

            Brynjolf imagined Sigdrifa Stormsword as a matron of honour and had to duck his head to hide his grin.

            The three young nobles retired to the lesser tables as Ulfric and Sigdrifa presented their gifts. “Hunted personally from the great bears of Eastmarch,” Ulfric intoned. “Accept them as a sign of the bond between our ancient and honourable Holds.”

            Unmid bowed his head while Ingun nodded curtly. Brynjolf hoped she didn’t poison them. Things would get very awkward, even if the thought was a tempting one. What a shame no one was around to retrieve Rustem’s bladed spear from the Palace while the Stormsword was away…

            Now dressed in bearskin mantles more suited for the snows off the Sea of Ghosts than the temperate winters of the Rift, the couple accepted various toasts and hails that grew bawdier as the night went on. Sigdrifa sat next to Maven, forbidding expression killing any hope of conversation, and Ulfric was joking with Vulwulf. Egil sat next to Lilija, both of them looking very awkward indeed.

            Things were merrier at the lower tables. Brynjolf enjoyed a flagon or three of Maven’s best while Korli nursed the one goblet, watching the gathering in that still quiet way of hers. “See anything interesting, lass?” he murmured into her ear.

            She turned towards him and in that moment, he realised that she had the same bone structure as the Stormsword, only softer and rounder with that beaky Cyrod nose. Even her eyes were a similar turquoise, though brighter and ringed with gold around the pupils, and her hair a warmer black. Brynjolf recalled her mentioning a Redguard ancestor as the reason for her olive-bronze complexion.

            He smiled and said, “You’re a lot prettier than her, lass.”

            “The Stormsword’s beyond such petty things as beauty,” she said bitterly. “She’s beyond just about everything.”

            Brynjolf might have questioned her more but the dancing began. “Let’s dance, lass.”

            She paused and then nodded, putting her goblet down.

            As they swung into a hearty couple’s dance, Brynjolf was struck by how gracefully she moved, how silent she was on her feet. There were more competent dancers around them but none had that sense of controlled motion. If the Guild had gotten her when she was young, before marriage to the lout that saw many of her best years wasted, she could have been as good as Delvin or Vex.

            Once the dance was over, Brynjolf looked over Korli’s head at the high table, where Ulfric and Sigdrifa still sat with the Snow-Shods, Maven and Laila. They couldn’t politely leave until Ingun and Unmid retired for the night.

            _Vulwulf’s looking a little florid tonight,_ he noted absently.

            “It’s probably a good thing you’re going to be a Jarl,” Hemming was saying to Egil. “Because I doubt you could make a living as a swordsman.”

            “How many battles have you been in?” Ulfric’s son asked mildly.

            “Excuse me?”

            “How many battles have you been in?” Egil repeated.

            “I have trained with the finest swordmasters in the Empire,” Hemming said stiffly.

            “Then you know how to dance with a sword. I have fought in, oh, one major battle, several raids and dozens of minor engagements,” Egil replied calmly. “Battle isn’t pretty. I mostly faced vampires and bandits, two of the lowest kinds of creature in Skyrim. My father entrusted me to clear out Eastmarch of bandits and other scum, then I fought at the side of the Dawnguard in the Battle of Castle Volkihar. I executed a five-thousand-year-old vampire personally. I bear Dawnbreaker and I am the Dawnbringer. When you earn an honour-name, I’ll duel you.”

            Hemming flushed an ugly red. “Are you implying I lack skill?”

            “Not at all. I’m sure you know all the forms of High Rock fencing. But in battle, it is chaos, and most of the foot soldiers on the other side want you dead because you have a nice sword and armour. Generally, they’ll go for a leg or arm to cripple and bleed you out, so it doesn’t ruin the armour.” Egil’s smile was chilly. “If you’re lucky, you bleed out quickly and go to Sovngarde. If you aren’t…”

            “I have someone I need to talk to,” Hemming said before he retreated into the crowd.

            Egil heaved a sigh of relief. Brynjolf knew the feeling. Hemming was a bit of a cunt, honestly. At least Maven brought the septims in.

            Then he glanced in their direction. Korli had turned and buried her face against his shoulder. Brynjolf rubbed her back soothingly and wondered just what the hell was going on.

            “Am I so terrible that your woman is scared of me?” the young noble asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “You’re certainly a cold bit of work,” Brynjolf countered. “Like your mother, really.”

            “Ah, a Reacher Nord. I suppose some resentment is justified there.” Egil inclined his head. “Good evening.”

            He took himself off and once he was lost in the crowd, Brynjolf stepped back and glanced down at Korli. “Why are you scared of-“

            He bit off the question when he realised the coldness in her eyes wasn’t because of fear… It was a freezing rage that would have done the Stormsword proud.

 


	6. Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing around with the Guild storyline because, you know, I treat NPCs like competent people with their own agency.

 

It was several hours of kneading dough for tomorrow’s bread, washing all her clothing and wringing them out to dry in a spare alcove, and ruthlessly scrubbing down the workbench in her little space with lye and pumice before Korli was fit to deal with again. Brynjolf had said nothing – given his shrewdness, he was probably putting a few things together – and given her space on their return to the Ragged Flagon. Ingun and Unmid had gone off to Snow-Shod Farm for the wedding night and the party probably still raged at the Temple despite the dampening presence of Ulfric’s family.

            Exhausted and gritty-eyed from infuriated weeping, Korli was cutting up more herbs to soak for the cold infusions when Vex approached her after a successful night of burglary. At least someone profited from tonight.

            “Brynjolf says you’re in a filthy mood and working yourself into exhaustion,” the albino Colovian said with typical bluntness. “Wanna talk about it while we go through what I lifted from the Cheydinhal caravan?”

            Korli sighed and shrugged helplessly. “I just saw some relatives last night I’d prefer to forget.”

            “I pegged you for a noble’s bastard,” Vex observed as she laid out the various stolen garments.

            “I’m not a bastard. I’m the result of a marriage that everyone wants to pretend never happened because of politics.” Korli began to examine a crimson silk doublet in the High Rock style. The silk was poor quality stuff but there was always some franklin in Haafingar who’d like to boast he owned a silk doublet from High Rock. “The paternal side of the family are dead or exiled. The maternal side are deeply involved in Ulfric’s plans for rebellion.”

            “Brynjolf noted your resemblance to the Stormsword,” Vex said slowly.

            “I’m related to the Kreathling Jarls,” Korli admitted with another sigh. The green velvet dress with the embroidered flowers had some potential if the shoddy stitching on the seams was mended. “I really don’t want to go into it, okay?”

            “Fair enough.” Vex laid out a striped robe of Khajiit cotton gauze. Even the stuff from Whiterun was better but the ornate designs would draw buyers looking for the exotic. “Feel better?”

            “A little,” Korli said.

            “Great. You think this stuff was worth lifting?”

            “Some of it is salvageable for the high-end market, but most of it would be better peddled to the moderately wealthy,” Korli replied honestly. “Or kept if you want to run the impoverished noble cons.”

            “Yeah, it was a bit threadbare. You should have seen what I left behind.” Vex stretched lithely. “Get some rest. We’ve got enough potions for the day shift and the stuff has to soak anyway.”

            Korli sighed and nodded. The Evening Master bundled up the clothing and took it away to be stored. Ma’dran or Ahkari could sell it to unsuspecting rural franklins and nobility. The Guild never sold fine goods in the Holds where they were stolen or shared a border.

            In the safe warm hole that two curtains and some crates made, she rolled over to the side and started to cry again. The Stormsword had her worthy Nord husband and proper Nord sons, though one dabbled in magic apparently. All of them were heroes and respected nobles. Did Sigdrifa even _care_ about what happened to her?

            Probably not. She wasn’t worth anything. Just a landless churl with no known clan who couldn’t even bear children properly.

            And around her the shadows shifted, laying over her like a concealing blanket.

…

Karliah took a deep breath as she walked into the Frozen Hearth. Despite the empty expanse of snow inside the ice walls raised by the College, two guards had questioned her just before Whistling Mine, and let her pass when she claimed to be an adventurer looking for the translation of a book she found. The best lies were based in truth and over the years, the Dunmer had been forced to play the mercenary to survive.

            The brown-tabby Khajiit at the trading stall beside the Jarl’s longhouse paid for the uncut gems and enchanted iron dagger in cold hard coin. Karliah accepted the meagre amount, not worth half the value of the goods, and walked over to the Frozen Hearth. It was enough for a few nights at the inn and she had better goods to offer Enthir if friendship wasn’t enough.

            Inside, it was a diverse crowd, a burly Nord with brown-black hair dancing merrily with a womer in Telvanni colours as someone played a drum. Jarl Korir was laughing at something an amber-eyed Khajiit said while a blonde woman in rabbit furs was talking to a petite Breton in exquisitely tailored mage robes. It took Karliah a moment to find Enthir tucked into the darkest corner, observing the scene and enjoying a cup of wine. She clung to the shadows and passed through the spaces in the crowd until she reached him, taking a seat without a word.

            “Karliah,” Enthir said softly. “I received your message.”

            “I’ve identified the language in the journal,” she said without preamble. “It’s Falmer. Can you translate it?”

            “Not me personally but I know a discreet scholar or two who can,” he replied. “My services won’t cost anything. I want Frey’s head on a pike too. But theirs will.”

            “How much?” She was awash in coin, even if it was stored in caches across Skyrim. Planning Mercer’s downfall cost enough coin to feed a Hold for a year.

            “It won’t be in coin. The College always has favours that needs doing.” Enthir rubbed his pointed chin. “I know the Arch-Mage has been wanting to hire someone to find somebody for him.”

            “Can he read Falmer?”

            “No. But he knows a couple people who can. What we need him for is to make sure it stays a secret.” Enthir rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

            The Arch-Mage turned out to be the burly young Nord with the ice-blue axe. “What have you done now, Enthir?” he asked in an amused rumble.

            “Do you remember how I told you about my friend Gallus?” Enthir asked. They’d retired to the Hearth’s cellar where it was warm after Enthir asked his superior for a quiet word.

            “The Thief sworn to Nocturnal? Aye. Found some interesting tidbits in the library about Nightingales.” The Arch-Mage gave a friendly smile to Karliah. “I don’t give a shit about what people do with their souls. I only ask that you _not_ rob the College. Some of what’s light and portable can be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

            “I understand,” Karliah said carefully. Enthir had told this man about Gallus?

            “Good. Now I’m told Gallus was betrayed by someone he considered a brother. I may not be the worshipper of Stendarr my brother is, but I’m happy to assist in the pursuit of justice.” The Arch-Mage sighed and rubbed his blue-green eyes. “I just need you to help me rectify a wrong on my end.”

            “I’ll do what I can,” Karliah promised. “I need a journal written in Falmer translated, preferably by someone who won’t publish the secrets within for all and sundry.”

            “Gelebor?” Enthir suggested. “He doesn’t give a shit about anything outside the Chantry of Auri-El.”

            “Just the mer I was considering,” the Arch-Mage responded with a grin. “Thank the gods we have a portal to his home.”

            He pushed away from the table. “I won’t ask for a price until we can confirm Gelebor can give you answers. But if he can, I’m going to ask you to look for someone. A kinswoman who was gravely wronged by my family.”

            “As I said, I’ll do what I can,” Karliah promised again. “I’m appreciative of this, Arch-Mage. I don’t dare show my face in the major cities because my own reputation has been slandered by Gallus’ murderer.”

            “And he’s had twenty years to peddle his lies,” Enthir agreed grimly.

            The College was amazing but the place the Arc-Mage took them to was even more so. A hidden valley with a great temple, over which a genuine snow elf watched. “Bjarni,” greeted Gelebor in a raspy voice. “Have they thrown you out of the College and you’ve decided to seek the peace of Auri-El?”

            “I’m more or less disowned by my parents but the College still likes me,” Bjarni replied with a grin. “You’ve met Enthir?”

            “Yes. I had to extricate him from a trap of the Betrayed.”

            “I wasn’t expecting the, uh, Betrayed to be so intelligent,” Enthir admitted wryly.

            “They are healing. In a few generations, something resembling my people may return.” The snow elf sighed. “But you didn’t come here to see how the healing of the Falmer is progressing.”

            “This is Karliah, an agent of Nocturnal,” Bjarni explained, gesturing to the Dunmer archer. “Her mate Gallus learned your language, or the variant used when the Betrayed were under the hand of the Falmer, from Calcelmo to encode a journal with the secrets of their order. We need it translated so she can pike his murderer’s head.”

            Karliah blinked. Even Enthir didn’t know that.

            Gelebor’s thin lips curved in a smile. “I’ve read Calcelmo’s attempts at translating. I hope this Nede was more competent at the language.”

            Karliah soundlessly handed over the journal and the snow elf flicked through it. “Fascinating,” he said. “Nocturnal has Her own agents drawn from the Thieves’ Guild. Well, they say that honour lies among thieves…”

            “I was one, Gallus another and Frey the third,” Karliah confessed. “Mercer Frey stole something sacred from Nocturnal, murdered Gallus when he found out, and framed me for the deed.”

            Gelebor laid the journal down on a table and got some parchment. He wrote something in Atmoran runes then passed the parchment to Bjarni, who wrote it all in Tamrielic script. “I can’t read or write in the modern script,” the snow elf admitted apologetically.

            “I can,” Bjarni said. “To think I used to bitch at my mother’s insistence I learn the old runes.”

            Karliah closed her eyes. “Do you think they’ll believe it?”

            “The translation is pretty straightforward. If anyone can read the runes, they should understand the gist,” Bjarni replied.

            “Then… Who do you want me to find? Before I go to the Guild, I’ll look for her.”

            “I can only give you a rough description,” the mage admitted with a sigh. “Black hair, turquoise eyes with gold in them. In her late twenties. Probably looks Kreathling but could be mistaken for a Redguard.”

            “If she’s in Skyrim, I should be able to find her, presuming she doesn’t live in the mountains,” Karliah told him. “Who is she?”

            The Nord’s expression was bleak. “She’s my sister and my mother abandoned her when she was young.”

…

Brynjolf stopped by Korli’s space to check on her. The Kreathling lass was straining the potions for the Spring Holdmoot and bottling the liquid. Clever woman, selling the alchemical equivalent of watered ale or mead. It was generally expected she’d be given the recipes for the Guild’s unique recipes soon because they were running out of potions.

            “Vex told me what you told her,” he said gently. “You want me to rob the Jarl’s hall blind?”

            Korli gave a half-laugh. Her eyes were still red. “Siddgeir would just make the people cough up more coin for his luxuries. They didn’t do me any wrong. I remember Nenya being angry about it.”

            “It’s a good thing you’re not in the night or evening shifts, lass. You’re too kind for it.” Brynjolf leaned over and brushed some of her black hair from her eyes. “You weren’t born a churl, were you?”

            “No. My paternal family were Cyrod nobles who were executed and exiled for treason after the Great War. I think I have an uncle who was allowed to stay in Cyrodiil because he’s a cleric of Arkay. He used to stay with the Companions a lot.” Korli shrugged slightly. “My mother said it was best for everyone if I forgot where I came from. She’s right in that. Most of my relatives are zealots and/or batshit insane.”

            “But you’re angry because they left you in the dirt,” Brynjolf said quietly.

            “Yes. It’s a human thing. I hope I didn’t ruin Ingun’s wedding.”

            “I don’t think you did. If you did, she’d let you know. If you tell her why, she might just poison some of your relatives. She likes you.” Brynjolf chuckled richly. “Poisoning Ulfric and the Stormsword would avert a lot of trouble.”

            “Egil would just take up the banner,” she pointed out.

            “Aye, true.” He sighed. “A man can dream though.”

            “I don’t want them dead, though I don’t blame you either.” Korli squeezed a handful of sliced mushroom to get the juice out. “I don’t even want vengeance. It just hurt to see them act like I didn’t exist.”

            “You exist, lass,” Brynjolf said softly.

            “I know.” Korli corked a vial. “Have you stopped the leaks?”

            “From the common pot, aye, but we’re still bleeding money from the treasury. And it’s painting a picture I don’t like, because it’s a two-man job to access the vault where we keep the funds.” Brynjolf sighed and shook his head. “Things have been going downhill since Gallus was murdered.”

            “How did he die?” Korli asked.

            “His lover Karliah murdered him and tried to kill Mercer. The Guild hasn’t recovered ever since.”

            Korli filled another bottle. “You’re certain it’s Karliah?”

            “Mercer told us.”

            “So you don’t have any proof aside from Frey’s word?” She stoppered the bottle. “Brynjolf, I know the Guild doesn’t have Moots, but not even Laila Law-Giver would condemn someone on the word of just one person without an investigation.”

            “What are you saying?” he said quietly.

            “Send Niruin to where Gallus died. He once told me he tracked a treasure on a cold trail fifty years old.” Korli tilted her head. “At best, everything you believe is confirmed. At worst, you get more evidence.”

            Brynjolf took a deep shaky breath. “You believe Mercer Frey murdered Gallus?”  
            “I believe the man’s bent as a crooked branch,” she replied. “I’ve met men like him before in Whiterun. Belethor could be the poor man’s version.”

            Brynjolf nodded. “I’ll think about it. I have to chase down a lead in Solitude first.”

            “That Gulum-Ei business? You could step on toes with the East Empire Trade Company if you’re not careful.” Korli rubbed her nose. “I’ll come with you. I’ve sold fabric to a Cyrod from the Company and we need to sell the things Vex got from the Cheydinhal caravan anyway.”

            Despite the grimness of the situation, Brynjolf smiled. “You want to travel with me?”

            “Why not? Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

            His smile broadened into a grin. “Lass, if I’m not in trouble, I’m doing it wrong.”


	7. Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

Aquillius Aeresius was a hook-nosed Niben-man who kept his balding head cropped close to a bronze scalp. He ran the East Empire Trade Company in Skyrim after the untimely demise of Vittoria Vici, huddling in the storefront at the docks under a snow-fox mantle despite it being spring in the northern province. Evette San told Korli he only ventured outside if there was money to made, and only if said opportunity arrived dressed in rich fashion and bearing a suitable bribe. She settled for the green velvet dress from Vex’s last burglary, its seams repaired and the embroidered flowers surrounded by a lattice of wheat-gold feather-stitch, a pair of black fur-lined boots and the fox-skin stole she wore at Ingun’s wedding. Instead of the gold-washed brass jewellery popular among the kind of successful franklin she was pretending to be, she chose a long necklace set with amber and Nibenese glass beads, simple bangles and three-part chiming earrings all of bronze, beautifully made and more substantial than fake gold.

            Brynjolf’s sharply sucked in breath on seeing her all done up made her smile. Then the Day Master shook himself, pulled on his Guild leathers, and went searching for Gulum-Ei while she played distraction.

            “Excuse me, sir, are you the factor here?” Korli asked.

            “I am,” Aquillius said, emerging from his cocoon of furs. “Do we have an appointment? I’d remember a woman like you.”

            “Not at all. My name is Aurelia Wool-Worker and I’m here to ask about the fabric imports from High Rock and Elseweyr.” None of it was a lie, exactly. “Since recent unpleasant events in Whiterun, I need a new source of silk-wool in particular.”

            “Oh, I know. Balgruuf managed to pay off High King Istlod with several bolts of it but the rest were stolen by thieves.” The factor sighed. “I have some Khajiiti alpaca and High Rock mohair.”

            “Precisely what I need,” Korli said crisply. “I leave the silks and velvets to Endarie at the Radiant Raiment unless it’s a special request from a client. Most of my customers prefer the substantially luxurious over the expensive fragile.”

            “The curse of the middle class,” Aeresius said with another sigh. “These may be the last bolts for a while. Pirates and the threat of rebellion are affecting trade.”

            “Better I acquire them now before events make them pricier than velvet from Alinor,” Korli said dryly. “Do you have samples available?”

            “Ah, I fear not. But I can show you the bolts we have in our warehouse… if you’re willing to submit to a patting search on the way in and out. The Thieves are everywhere in Skyrim.”

            “Yes. Most of them wear coronets and call themselves Jarls,” she said dryly. “I’ll tolerate a lot more than a brief search to get the fabrics I need.”

            “Yes, the tax rate is exorbitant if you’re not a Nord,” Aeresius agreed.

            Korli was quickly patted down and escorted into the warehouse. The goods of an Empire were stacked high on shelves as they walked through the aisles towards where the fabric was kept. Aeresius did most of the talking and she made the appropriate noises, venturing a comment about how terrible recent events were on the middle class.

            The fabrics available were not the best, though they were better than what most Nords saw. She selected some cloud-grey mohair and creamy alpaca but declined the cotton from Elseweyr. “It’s too fine for most Nord fashions,” she told the factor. “Whiterun cotton is good enough.”

            “Suit yourself,” Aeresius said. “Now, because of the expenses of travel and the uncertain political climate, I fear I can’t part from the bolts for anything less than one thousand septims.”

            “I could go to Riften and acquire the Whiterun silk-wool from the thief-vendors for cheaper than that,” she retorted tartly. “Five hundred septims or I will.”

            They haggled the price until it was settled at seven hundred septims. Korli handed over the coin and gave orders for it to be delivered to the Winking Skeever, where she’d hired a room for the next three nights.

            “You haggle like a Colovian,” Aeresius said wryly. “Were you born in Cyrodiil?”

            “I’m from the Jeralls on the border,” Korli replied carefully. “I trust our business is concluded?”

            “Yes, yes!” Aeresius bustled her towards the door. “I’ll have the bolts delivered by tomorrow morning.”

            She endured another pat down and climbed the hill back to Solitude. Once she was inside her room, she sat down on the bed and buried her face in her hands. How could Brynjolf con people on a regular basis? Even with telling most of the truth, every fibre of her being had quaked in fear of being discovered.

            “I got some answers, lass.”

            Brynjolf’s voice nearly made her jump out of her skin. “And?”

            “Karliah’s engineered everything from the sale of Goldenglow to the sponsoring of Honningbrew,” he reported, pushing back his leather hood to let his auburn locks fall free. “She’s trying to draw Mercer to Snow Veil Sanctum, where Gallus was murdered.”

            “Send Niruin up there to scout,” Korli suggested.

            “Aye, it’s a thought.” The Reacher sat next to her on the bed. “You handled yourself well with Aeresius. ‘Aurelia Wool-Worker’. Good choice of name. You should establish the identity.”

            “Aurelia’s a common name in County Bruma because the Hero of Kvatch came there,” she explained.

            “So it is, lass. Was she really seven feet tall and clad in steel plate? The Bruma statue’s pretty descriptive.”

            Korli snorted. “She was a foul-mouthed Nord with an Orc father who tore Daedra apart with her bare hands and gave the Blades their best and worst Grandmasters in the Fourth Era.”

            “Heh, I thought the legends were a bit out there.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll get out of these and take you to dinner. The innkeep here has a way with slaughterfish fillets that makes them melt in your mouth-“

            “Brynjolf.” The contralto was low and slumberous. “We need to talk.”

…

If it wasn’t for Korli’s hand on his arm, Brynjolf would have drawn his dagger and gone for Karliah’s throat. The violet-eyed Dunmer emerged from the shadows, wearing supple leathers of mottled grey, and she had some parchment in her hand. “I only ask for you to hear me out,” she continued. “Hear me out and read this translation of Gallus’ journal before you act.”

            “Let me guess: Mercer’s bent as a crooked branch and he murdered Gallus,” Korli said.

            “Yes. I shouldn’t be surprised that an Aurelii would have realised the web of deceit and betrayal Mercer has woven around the Guild.” Karliah regarded Korli with a distant compassion. “Your brother Bjarni asked me to find you, Callaina.”

            The muscle in Korli’s jaw twitched. “Why?”

            “To right the wrongs done to you, I suppose.” Karliah shrugged elegantly. “That you are here with Brynjolf is… fortuitous.”

            “It’s twenty years too late,” Korli said simply. “Now, I’m guessing you have proof of Mercer’s guilt.”

            “I do. Of Gallus’ murder and more.” Karliah offered the parchment to Brynjolf. Reluctantly, he took it and opened it.

            The first passage was in some strange cursive language, the second in rough Old Nord runes, and the third in Tamrielic. “It's been confirmed by my sources. Mercer's been living an unduly lavish lifestyle replete with spending vast amounts of gold on personal pleasures. I have more than my share of evidence to confront him now. He must be stealing from the Guild, but without proof, all I have is baseless accusation. Mercer came from wealthy stock, but the amount of coin he's been spending is immense.

“I've been giving it some serious thought. There's only a single way that Mercer could have access to vast amounts of coin. I hesitate to even believe it's possible. How could he possibly desecrate the Twilight Sepulchre? This goes far beyond mere greed and transcends common theft. His actions could represent the failure of the Nightingales, something that hasn't occurred in hundreds of years. Why? Why would he readily throw away everything he believes in? All I need is proof.

“Mercer Frey has requested I meet him at Snow Veil Sanctum today. He sent a note by courier so I can only assume he's already there. All my senses tell me it's a trap, but I have no choice. His message indicated the meeting was of the utmost urgency and involved Guild business, so I'm obligated to go. I can't risk bringing anyone else with me, but I'm almost certain Karliah will disobey and follow.”

“It sounds plausible,” Korli said slowly. “Bryn, give me the parchment. I can read Old Atmoran.”

Brynjolf handed her the parchment, eyes on Karliah the whole time. The Kreathling woman read out the Old Nord passage, making Gallus’ journal sound like an epic poem, but the translation was clear.

“Gallus learned Falmer from Calcelmo. I went to the College and traded a favour for the translation,” Karliah explained. Then she sighed. “You should have seen where I went to get it, Brynjolf. This big beautiful temple with a still-untwisted Falmer.”

“You always appreciated beautiful sights,” Brynjolf said with a sigh of his own. “Lass, you show up at the Flagon, Vex and Delvin will gut you.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to accompany Mercer to Snow Veil Sanctum. I have ways of binding him. Then we can get our answers.”

“If you want, I’ll hang on to the translation,” Korli offered quietly. “Tonilia was the one who picked up the leaks. Go to this Snow Veil Sanctum and I’ll get Niruin to follow you. That way you can tell Mercer it wasn’t your idea. I’ll show Tonilia this and we can go to Sapphire and Rune.”

“Aye, our bookkeepers,” Brynjolf said with a wry smile. Then he glanced to Karliah. “I’m not rushing back, lass. Me and Korli have business here for the next two days.”

“Take your time. Mercer will want a scapegoat and he’ll find a way to blame you.” Karliah’s smile was sad. “Be careful, Brynjolf, he’s more powerful than you realise.”

“Well, since no one’s claiming the Grey Fox is running around, it wasn’t the Cowl,” Korli said dryly.

“It was more important than the Cowl, Cal… Korli.” Karliah tilted her head at the Kreathling. “What will you do about your brother? He’s already told your uncle Irkand you’re alive. Egil knows too. Rustem, given his Dark Brotherhood membership, will learn sooner or later if you’re associated with the Guild.”

“Nothing,” Korli said flatly. “We have bigger things to worry about than the tangled affairs of the Aurelii and Stormsword kindreds.”

“True,” Karliah agreed. “But things are moving apace. Choose before it’s chosen for you.”

She faded back into the shadows and Brynjolf cursed long and low.

“I know the feeling,” Korli told him. “So now what?”

He collected himself and glanced at her in her green velvet dress and pretty bronze jewellery. “I take you out to dinner, lass. We’re not rushing to Riften just on Karliah’s say so.”

“I can do dinner. Hell, I can do dinner and a few drinks.” She pushed her long black braid back. “Maybe more than a few drinks.”

“Unless you want Aurelia Wool-Worker to be known as a lush, lass, you better hold off.”

“I know.” She leaned against him with a sigh. “You must have nerves of steel, Brynjolf. I’m a wreck.”

“I’m a bit shaky myself, lass,” he admitted. “I’ll just be damned before I show it.”

“Go get changed and let’s have dinner.” She smiled at him. “I’d like to try the slaughterfish fillets.”

Brynjolf rose and bowed floridly. “Your wish is my command, lass.”


	8. Arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Since there’s going to be another time-skip in Vengeance, I’ll be focusing on this story for the next few chapters.

 

They had to change carriages at Whiterun and that left a few hours for Korli to kill. She’d changed into a simpler dress of dark brown wool and tucked the jewellery away, but she kept the fox-fur stole. Brynjolf was visiting someone at Honningbrew Meadery – now Black-Briar West thanks to Maven’s hostile takeover – and the bolts of fabric were safely stored at the stables. Skulnar knew better than to let anyone steal it.

            She wandered over to the rocky common between Barley-Beard Farm, where the goats grazed during the day under the eye of a dedicated goatherd. The herd was looking thinner, their coats tangled, and her experienced eye knew this year’s fleece yield would be poor. What the hell was going on and where was the goatherd?

            Her mouth tightened. They weren’t her goats anymore but she’d left detailed instructions. Maybe someone needed reminding.

            “Korli!” Ivar Clear-Voice, the old Reacher who was huscarl to Dagmar, hobbled out of the gate. “Where have you been, woman?”

            “Making a new life for myself,” she replied, trying to keep her annoyance out of her voice. Ivar and the others had done no wrong. Some had actually wept when the divorce was announced. “What in the name of Kyne is wrong with the goats? They need special feed and daily combing!”

            “Gorran’s new wife has no gift with animals,” the old man said with a sigh. “She took Grimnir off goat duty and put him back in the fields.”

            “He certainly didn’t waste time,” she said dryly.

            Ivar pursed his lips. “I think he’d proposed to her before he divorced you. Hence the haste.”

            Korli took a deep breath and released it slowly. “In all good conscience, I can’t leave the goats in this condition. Where’s Dagmar?”

            “Up at the house. Gorran and Jilla are in town.” Ivar gave her a sideways glance. “Can you afford it? I know you didn’t get much of a divorce settlement.”

            “I can.” Even if she had to sell the bolts of alpaca and mohair. Or ask Brynjolf for a loan. Or trade the jewellery in her pouch.

            Dagmar was seated on the bench outside the house, carving something. Korli had never realised before how old and tired the Thane looked. “She wants to buy the goats,” Ivar said without preamble.

            “And just how did you come by the money, Korli?” Dagmar asked, setting aside his knife.

            “I make simples and keep books in Riften,” she replied honestly. “I can trade a couple bolts of imported wool or some jewellery for them. But I can’t leave the poor beasts to be neglected like they are.”

            “I need a new housekeeper. Jilla’s fertile but she’s not half the cook or alewife you were, and she can’t weave or sew at all. I’ll pay you the appropriate wage, same as any of the other churls-“

            “No.” Korli regarded the man she’d considered as something resembling a father figure steadily. “I’m buying the goats and I’m leaving. I have a life in Riften now.”

            “Even after I took you in as a foundling no one wanted?”

            “Given I worked for nothing but bed, board and the occasional septim for ten years, then spent ten years married to Gorran before being turned out with practically nothing, I’d say the debt’s paid,” Korli said calmly. “You could have given me the goats, Dagmar. They were _my_ project and the weaving all _my_ work. Do you know that last year’s fleece is worth its weight in gold? I do.”

            “Dagmar,” Ivar said softly. “She’s right. You had a bargain for years. Now she knows what she’s worth.”

            The Thane sighed. “I can give you honest work.”

            “I have honest work in Riften. In fact, given the coarseness of the local goat’s wool there, I’ll probably do nicely.” Once the goats were fattened and properly taken care of. She wondered if Ingun would go halves in the herd so she could hire a goatherd to take care of them.

            “It wasn’t my idea to be rid of you,” Dagmar finally said with a sigh. “Gorran got Jilla pregnant and he had to marry her. She’s a cousin of the Shatter-Shields in Windhelm.”

            “Your idea or not, you could have done better by me,” Korli told him. “Sell me the goats and I’ll consider the matter settled.”

            “Take the goats, the loom and the other weaving tools,” Dagmar said heavily. “Consider it your divorce settlement. Take them and be gone from my sight, because you obviously don’t understand loyalty.”

            “Loyalty is a rope that knots both ways,” Korli said softly. “When I was divorced and left with very little, that ended any loyalty I had for you.”

            “Your own family didn’t want you.”

            “No. My father’s side believed me dead because that’s what my mother’s kin told them. I even have a brother who paid a member of the Thieves’ Guild to find me.” Korli lifted her eyes to Dagmar’s. “I haven’t decided what to do about it. I have other concerns. But I was abandoned because a certain woman of Kreathling noble blood wanted to pretend her disastrous marriage never happened and her father had a fear of magic. You’re a smart man, Dagmar, versed in politics. I’m sure you can figure out which family.”

            She turned towards Ivar. “I’ll be with the goats.”

            It didn’t hurt as much as she thought it did leaving Barley-Beard Farm for the last time.

…

“Maven wants the deed to Goldenglow Estate.”

            “Maven can go fuck herself in this regard,” Brynjolf told Delvin bluntly. “I’m keeping the deed for myself. Don’t you always say we need something for retirement? Well, Goldenglow’s my something.”

            “The fact that Korli’s now got thirty goats and nowhere to put them has absolutely nothing to do with it?” Delvin asked dryly.

            “It crossed my mind. Of us all, she knows how to run a farm.” Brynjolf sat down across from the Night Master. “The thing is, lad, Maven’s starting to treat us like we’re her lackies, not equal partners in an enterprise. Aye, she’s stuck with us, but it doesn’t mean we owe her utter capitulation to every whim.”

            “You’ve got a point,” Delvin conceded. “Is Korli gonna have enough time to run the estate and do everything else?”

            Brynjolf nodded. “She hired a couple of the older orphans from Honorhall as goatherds. Those goats of hers need dedicated carers and special feeds to produce their silk-wool. Svana Far-Shield’s been taken on to oversee the honey production and Valindor to do the heavy work around the estate. Korli will only need to be over there every other day for a few hours to make sure everything’s sorted.”

            “Controlling the source of honey for Maven’s mead and the silk-wool production will make a point to the Black-Briars,” Mercer Frey grated from behind. “I can’t say as I’m happy you’ve undermined my authority though.”

            “Strange. I thought the Day Master had enough autonomy to set up this sort of thing,” Brynjolf reminded the Guild Master. “Aye, I’ll grant it was a bit of favouritism to give Korli the charge of the estate and keep the deed for myself, but it’s a good way to be rid of dirty money. I know you’ve been preoccupied with Karliah’s little scheme, so you’ve missed Maven taking us for granted.”

            “He’s right, Mercer. Maven’s been treating us like dogs and we’ve been letting her,” Delvin agreed.

            Mercer’s mouth tightened but he nodded. “I suppose you’re right, Brynjolf. Next time, let me know before you pull something like this. I’ll have to soothe Maven’s temper.”

            “Ah, she’ll cool down by the time we return from Snow Veil Sanctum,” Brynjolf assured him. “Karliah’s demise will soothe a lot of people’s tempers.”

            “Yes, it will.” The Guild Master nodded again. “We leave at dawn. Be ready. Remember, it’s just you and I.”

            “I won’t ask anyone to follow us just in case,” Brynjolf promised. “Or ask anyone to ask anyone to follow us.”

            “Good. A man’s word is his bond.” Mercer nodded curtly and returned to the Cistern.

            “I don’t like the idea of you going alone up there,” Delvin said grimly. “Karliah’s as good as a Dark Brother when it comes to the ambush. Gallus found that out the hard way.”

            Brynjolf decided to take a chance. “I won’t be. Korli told me she’s going to pay someone to go ahead.”

            “Wait. Is that why Niruin took off this morning?”

            “Aye. Don’t tell anyone. You know how Mercer is when someone subverts his orders.”

            “That woman is a genius. Marry her before someone else gets her.”

            “She hasn’t even been divorced for three months and you want me to haul her to the Temple of Mara?” Brynjolf asked.

            “You two work like hand-in-glove, Brynjolf. You’d be a fucking idiot to let her go.” Delvin’s smile was sly. “You _are_ smarter than some dumbfuck from Whiterun, right?”

            Brynjolf scowled at the man and stalked out.


	9. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“Your arrow won’t reach me before my blade finds your heart.”

            “Yes, well, about that…” There was the twang of a bow and a cry of pain from Mercer as Niruin fired an arrow into his knee. Brynjolf pressed his hand to the wound in his side and struggled to his feet, dagger still in hand. Sovngarde wasn’t much of an afterlife but it was better than dying in a forgotten ruin. “The Guild began to suspect it was you skimming from the treasury a few weeks ago. The whole thing with someone keeping accounts on each shift and cross-checking with Tonilia’s books wasn’t just for convenience. It was to catch the person robbing us all.”

            Brynjolf fumbled one-handed for a healing potion. Korli had brewed a couple extra-strong ones before he left with Mercer. “You got greedy, Mercer. Oh, we’re all greedy, but you got gullveig and it got you caught.”

            “Did it?” Mercer shook his hand and threw a knife underhanded at Brynjolf. It got him in the gut and he collapsed from the pain. “You have enough time to save his life, Karliah, or take mine. What’s your choice?”

            “You can’t run forever, Mercer.” Karliah lunged for him but Mercer went invisible. The Dunmer cursed long and low as Niruin rushed over, putting his hands over the wound in Brynjolf’s belly.

            “We can stabilise this but we’ll need to get him to Colette at the College,” Karliah said quietly. “I’ve got some credit with them. The College collects magical artefacts and doesn’t care how they’re acquired so long as previous ownership can’t be proven.”

            They poured healing potions down his throat and bound a healing poultice to Brynjolf’s belly before carrying him outside to Karliah’s camp. “Mercer… killed… horse,” he managed to rasp.

            “Son of a…” Niruin bit off the curse and let out a scream. One of the sea-hawks that nested around here landed on his leather-wrapped forearm and the Bosmer spoke to it in a language of growls and hisses before tying a letter to its leg. The raptor flew off and Niruin returned to kneel by Brynjolf’s side.

            “I arranged some transport beforehand,” the Bosmer explained. “Mercer seems to have forgotten our Guildmates aren’t all self-absorbed cunts like himself.”

            The transport turned out to be Sapphire and Korli with a horse-drawn wagon. “Vex’s already ransacking Riftweald Manor for answers,” the dark-haired Eastmarcher reported. “Mercer completely cleaned out the vault before he left. How one man managed to open it, I don’t know.”

            “Mercer has supernatural abilities,” Karliah said simply. “I’ll explain more later, but we need to get Brynjolf to a healer.”

            He was laid in the back of the wagon on a bed of straw. Korli knelt beside him and pulled out a small vial of red liquid. “This tastes like shit, but it’ll purge any infection or poison from your system,” she said crisply as Sapphire got the horse moving. “So drink.”

            The vial tasted like burnt fish shit. “Gah! What…?”

            “Dried mudcrab chitin and charred skeever hide. Most powerful cure I know.” She removed his jacket and checked the poultice. Clicking her tongue in disappointment, she replaced it with a poultice of moss and crushed blue mountain flower. “Niruin, why didn’t you come to me for a better poultice?”

            “Mine works just fine,” he grumbled.

            “It would have just barely kept him alive. I know that you follow the Green Pact, but doesn’t it only apply to vegetation in Valenwood?” Korli sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking my worry out on you.”

            “Is the Guild going to be alright without you?” Karliah asked.

            “Delvin’s got everything in hand. The last I heard, he was looking for certain, ah, things to call on outside help.” Korli’s mouth tightened. “It appears Mercer also defrauded the Brotherhood.”

            “Yeah and they weren’t happy. I’ll be working with them too,” Sapphire added. “I used to be with them but the Guild pays better and gives less grief.”

            “Normally I’d say we should handle it ourselves, but…” Karliah sighed. “The Dark Brotherhood is resurgent. Their new Listener is competent and their chief Speaker was a Blade. We could use the assistance.”

            “I have my limits of what I’ll tolerate,” Korli said softly.

            “That’s why you’re on day shift, sweetie. The Guild’s luck’s getting better since you showed up, but you’re not suited to the evening or night work,” Sapphire told her.

            “I appreciate you being willing to listen to me when I showed you the translation,” Korli said.

            “Hey, I knew Mercer was crooked. I just didn’t realise it was so bad.”

            The wagon trundled onward and every mile or so, Korli trickled healing potion into Brynjolf’s mouth. “If you die on me, I’ll hunt down your ghost and kill you again,” she hissed.

            “And they say romance is dead,” Niruin said dryly.

            They arrived in Winterhold and Karliah climbed out of the wagon. “We need Colette,” she told a Khajiit with glowing amber eyes. “We’ve got a wounded man here.”

            “What is in it for J’zargo?” the Khajiit asked.

            “I don’t shoot you with my special silver arrows.”

            The Khajiit disappeared in a hurry. The others carried Brynjolf into the inn as a couple people took charge of the horse and wagon.

            By the time a small shrill-voiced Breton and a bulky dark-haired Nord arrived, Brynjolf was mostly focused on the feel of Korli’s fingers entwined with his. “They never appreciate me until they need a healer,” the Breton complained. “Move aside, all of you. I can’t do my work with you crowded into the room.”

            “I’ll stay,” Korli told them. “I assisted Danica a lot at the Whiterun Temple.”

            “Did you make the poultice?” Colette asked as she removed it.

            “Yes. Do you have an issue with my alchemical skills?” Korli asked coolly.

            “It was reasonable for someone who was self-taught. Now Restoration is the true school for healers.” She placed her hands on Brynjolf’s chest as golden light filled the air with the sound of shimmering chimes.

            “Not all of us have the privilege of formal education,” Korli said flatly. “But do go about your own self-worth. I have all day to hear you whine.”

            “I was giving you a compliment!”

            “What have I said about showing some tact?” rumbled the Nord. “Given the state of that wound, the fact she kept him alive is a bloody miracle.”

            “Someone put a poultice of giant’s toenail and bear claw on it before I arrived,” Korli explained. “We’ve also been dosing him with healing potions.”

            “You and your friends did a good job,” Colette said. “Given the wound was infected with Daedric energies…”

            “What?”

            “Someone used Daedric magic to tie his life force to themselves in order to heal themselves.” Colette removed her hands with a smug smile. “I’ve severed the tie. He’ll be up and about in a couple days.”

            Brynjolf took a deep shuddering breath. “Can you heal me totally? We don’t have a couple days, lass.”

            “Not to reveal secrets, but we’re hunting a man who pissed off the Guild,” Korli said quietly. “We don’t have the luxury of letting Brynjolf heal naturally.”

            “I can do it, but he’ll be prone to sickness and a lack of stamina for the next few weeks,” Colette replied.

            “Do it,” Brynjolf ordered.

            “Fine.” More golden energy washed through him and the remaining pain vanished, only to be replaced with gut-wrenching hunger. “Get him some porridge. He needs to eat before anything else.”

            Korli left and then returned with a bowl of porridge sprinkled with dried blue mountain flower. “Thank the gods they used wheat,” she said. “It’ll strengthen him.”

            The porridge was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, even if it was spoon-fed to him by Korli. Brynjolf’s fantasies involving food and Korli didn’t include porridge.

            When the bowl was done, Korli set it aside and looked at the two mages. “I appreciate this. The Guild appreciates it.”

            “I’d appreciate the healer’s fees,” Colette said dryly.

            “I’ll cover them,” the Nord said.

            The healer looked up at him. “May I ask why, Bjarni?”

            “Because the lady’s my elder sister and judging by the way she’s acting, that’s her man who was wounded,” Bjarni replied.

            Colette’s eyes flickered between them. “Yes, I can see that now.”

            Korli helped Brynjolf to sit up. “I… appreciate it.”

            “Your brother’s a bit of a cunt,”: Brynjolf told Ulfric’s eldest son. “Not as much as your mother, but a bit of one.”

            Bjarni smiled wryly. “Egil has his virtues. My mother will answer for what she’s done one day. It isn’t my place to bring it about.”

            He glanced at Korli. “I’m glad you’re alive. You’re welcome at the College anytime.”

            “I’ll see. We’re a bit pressed for time at the moment.” Korli’s voice was uncertain.

            “I understand.” Bjarni’s smile was a gentle, boyish thing and Brynjolf was struck by how _young_ he was. “Take your time.”

            “Thanks.” Korli helped Brynjolf to his feet and while he was a bit shaky, he could walk.

            In the common room, the other three jumped to their feet. “You’re moving. Good,” Karliah said grimly. “We have to return to Riften and stop Mercer. If he leaves Skyrim, we’ll lose the ability to track him.”

            “He won’t be in Riften waiting for us,” Korli pointed out.

            “No. I know where he’ll go. But we have to go to Riften first. I’ll explain on the way.”

            That didn’t sound promising. What was even less promising was that everyone looked at Brynjolf like he was in charge now. Shit. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”


	10. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

“I thought the Nightingales were just a myth, lass.”

            “That rumour was deliberately spread by us to keep the Guild from guessing the truth,” Karliah said quietly. They were somewhere in the Aalto, heading past a cave with a mammoth covered in spider webs, and the Dunmer was sharing the truth behind Mercer’s actions. “But… well, each of you has qualities that would make for a good Nightingale, an agent, sentinel and avenger of Nocturnal. I am… I _was_ the Agent of Shadow. Gallus was the Agent of Subterfuge. Mercer was the Agent of Strife. There are always three, one for each aspect of Nocturnal.”

            Brynjolf shifted on his seat with a groan. Even wholly healed wounds were stiff. “I’m from the Reach, lass. We worship Nocturnal there.”

            “Gallus always intended you to take his place. In the ordinary way of things, the Masters would become the new Nightingales and the Guildmaster be separate from it. But the Great War decimated our ranks and so Gallus took over from the former Day Master.” Karliah sighed and stared into the distance. “Now Mercer has stolen the source of our power and become more than human. He has stolen the Skeleton Key from the Twilight Sepulchre.”

            There was absolute silence following her statement. Finally, Korli asked, “What in the name of sweet Kyne is that?”

            “The Skeleton Key can unlock anything. Doors, windows, potential. For all intents and purposes, Mercer may well be a god,” Karliah replied grimly.

            “Well, the Nerevarine taught us that gods can die, and the Hero of Kvatch taught us they can be punched in the big toe and made to hop,” Korli replied briskly.

            “What,” Karliah said flatly.

            “You know my ancestry. My great-great-grandma was the Hero of Kvatch. She punched Mehrunes Dagon in the big toe and he hopped, which bought her and Martin enough time to get into the Temple of the One,” she told the Dunmer. “So Mercer might be a god, but he can die and he can be hurt.”

            “They didn’t put that one in the history books,” Niruin observed sardonically.

            “No, they didn’t,” Korli agreed.

            “So, if Nocturnal is the patron of thieves, does that mean She’s Lady Luck?” Sapphire asked.

            “Yes,” Karliah confirmed.

            “No wonder things have been going to shit for the Guild. We pissed off Lady Luck Herself.”

            “Yes. We must execute Mercer and retrieve the Skeleton Key, then it must be returned to the Twilight Sepulchre.”

            “That’s in Falkreath,” Brynjolf said.

            “Yes.”

            Korli shifted on her seat across from Brynjolf. “So who’s going to become Nightingales. You’re already one and there’s only two free places.”

            Karliah studied Brynjolf with a measuring glance. “I would choose you, Brynjolf, to take Gallus’ place as Agent of Subterfuge.”

            “I have all the respect in the world for the old gods, lass, but I’m no priest.”

            “In life, you would have all the powers of a Nightingale to do with as you wish. In death, you would protect the Twilight Sepulchre until you returned to the shadows as a guide for future Thieves.” Karliah tilted her head. “It’s like a Guild contract.”

            “Put that way…” Brynjolf cracked a smile. “I never wanted to go to Sovngarde anyway.”

            “I hear it’s overrated.” Karliah’s violet eyes swung to the other three Thieves. Korli shifted, seeing the alien power in them. “Niruin, Sapphire, I need to choose one of you as the Agent of Strife. The Nightingales need to be fighters, so that leaves out Korli.”

            “The Aedra have done fuck all for me,” Sapphire said bitterly. “If Nocturnal doesn’t mind sharing with Sithis, I’m game.”

            “She doesn’t care. Neither does Sithis, really.” Karliah nodded decisively. “When we return to Riften, we three will go to Nightingale Hall.”

            Sapphire drove the wagon as they reached the winding path that would bring them into the aspen forests of the Rift. Korli fell silent and considered the events of the past day. She should be glad about Bjarni wanting to reach out to her but all she felt was weariness. For many years, she’d had a place in the world, and when it was gone she found another. Now, everyone from her past was returning, and she wanted nothing to do with them or it.

            “Septim for your thoughts?” Brynjolf murmured.

            “They aren’t worth a clipped copper,” she replied. “How are the wounds?”

            “Stiff but I can fight if need be,” he answered. “Good to know one of your brothers isn’t entirely useless.”

            Korli snorted. “I still can’t believe you insulted the other in front of him.”

            “It was the truth and he didn’t disagree.” Brynjolf chuckled. Then he began to laugh.

            “What?”

            “Oh, I was thinking if we worked out and decided to marry, I’d be in-laws with Ulfric and you’d be in-laws with Madanach. My da comes from the same clan as the High King of the Reach.”

            “What.” That was from Niruin.

            “Ulfric wasn’t Sigdrifa Stormsword’s first husband. That dubious honour belongs to Rustem Aurelius,” Karliah said.

            “Wait, the Redguard guy with the bladed spear who’s part of the Brotherhood?” Sapphire asked.

            “Yes.”

            “The gods hate me,” Korli sighed.

            “Madanach’s not so bad,” Brynjolf said. “I’m sure he’s a bit bitter towards lowlanders, but I’m a Reacher and his own kin.”

            “He and Ulfric would kill each other at the wedding party.”

            “Or Rustem would.” Karliah tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Brynjolf, how’s the bidding on Motierre’s Elder Council pendant going?”

            “Twenty thousand and counting,” Brynjolf supplied. “Almost as much as the betting on who the target is.”

            “That one’s easy,” Niruin said. “Titus Mede.”

            “Aye, he’s the one with the lowest odds. Now the real betting is on who’s supplying the cash,” Brynjolf said. “Currently, it’s Elenwen who’s at short odds.”

            “Motierre’s just stupid enough to use Thalmor gold to have the Emperor assassinated,” Niruin agreed. “I’m betting that he’ll get thrown under the cart by Elenwen to throw the Elder Council off. That would leave…?”

            “Akaviria Nona Mara Medea as the last Mede heir,” Karliah said.

            “My father’s helping to kill the Emperor?” Korli asked.

            “Aye. He’s got a grudge for the sake of Hammerfell. Or so he’s said,” Brynjolf replied.

            “Oh fuck me,” she breathed. “I think my uncle’s in Solitude. It makes sense – he might serve Arkay, but he’s always served the Empire too. They’re going to clash and probably try to kill each other.”

            “My bet’s on Rustem,” Sapphire immediately said to Niruin.

            “Irkand. They say the man is the best assassin in Tamriel,” the Bosmer replied.

            Brynjolf took her hands in his. “As far as I can tell, lass, most of your family are idiots. Bjarni’s alright, I guess, but the rest of them are zealots and lunatics. Let them sort out their quarrels and talk to the survivors.”

            “This will start a civil war. The only winners will be the Thalmor,” Korli said grimly.

            “If it isn’t this, it’ll be Ulfric.” Brynjolf shrugged a little.

            “I was always told the Thalmor want to wipe out humanity so they could become gods or something like that,” she told him. “I don’t give a damn about the Empire but…”

            “The Redguards might step in to fill the vacuum if the Stormcloaks don’t,” Niruin observed. “That would be interesting.”

            “Let’s worry about our problems, lass, and leave the politics to the professionals.” Brynjolf lifted their hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles before releasing them.

            Korli fell silent but her thoughts were grim for the rest of the journey.


	11. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing a tad with the process of becoming a Nightingale for rule of cool and glossing over the final battle because I’m lazy.

 

“You surprise me, Karliah. This bargain is heavily weighted in my favour.”

            “My desire for Mercer’s demise outweighs my craving for wealth,” Karliah replied to Nocturnal’s imperious observation.

            “I see. Sapphire, Brynjolf, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

            “I want to be the best in the Guild,” Sapphire said simply.

            “It’s been luck and the shadows that have preserved me so far,” Brynjolf answered. “What use is Sovngarde to a Thief?”

            “Indeed,” Nocturnal agreed. “The deal is acceptable, Karliah.”

            The shadows seeped over their flesh, moulding to their skin in articulated armour that swallowed the light. It felt like leather, almost, but with a cool slick feeling like a snake’s scales. Brynjolf glanced down to see the symbol of the Nightingales, a wing-spread bird against a moon, and knew he could call this armour whenever he wished.

            “Now, I have suspicions on where Mercer will go, but we better check with Vex first,” Karliah said, only her violet eyes visible above the mask. “She was checking Riftweald Manor, yes?”

            “Aye,” Brynjolf confirmed.

            Vex and the other Thieves were in the Flagon, going over various bits of paper. “When I get my hands on Mercer, I’ll feed him his own gizzards on a toasting fork,” the Evening Master vowed fiercely.

            “We need to find Irkngthand first,” Korli said quietly. “I’m guessing the ‘Eyes of the Falmer’ aren’t actual eyeballs.”

            “They’re diamonds,” Karliah said. “Diamonds the size of a newborn baby. If Mercer gets them and escapes, he’ll be able to disappear beyond our reach.”

            “So what are we waiting for?” Vex demanded.

            “The Brotherhood,” Delvin replied grimly. “Valerica won’t be happy if I’ve wasted their time.”

            “How did Mercer defraud them?” Korli asked curiously.

            “Like us, the Brotherhood often comes across things with, ah, uncertain ownership,” Tonilia explained. “We trade things like poisons we acquire in return for things they can’t use. He overcharged them by a fair amount.”

            “Speak of the Daedra,” Dirge called from near the Flagon door. “And they arrive.”

            A handsome Nord woman with black hair and glowing amber eyes stepped into the tavern, accompanied by a broad-shouldered Redguard wearing an Orcish sword across his back, and a lean Dunmer woman in chitin armour wrapped with scarlet rags. “You didn’t need to warn me, Rustem,” she said to the Redguard. “This place is better than the old Dawnstar Sanctuary.”

            “You been carrying tales?” Delvin asked dryly.

            “I had to prepare the Listener for your pathetic attempts at wooing women,” Rustem replied sardonically.

            “He’s still more charming than my late and unlamented husband,” Valerica said quietly. “I apologise if we kept you waiting. There was some unpleasantness at the old Falkreath Sanctuary. The Penitus Oculatus attempted to wipe us out and managed to kill Krex.”

            “I wonder why,” Korli said with more than a little acidity. “Have you given any thought to the consequences of your actions?”

            “Kings die and their kingdoms go on,” Valerica replied. “I’m aware of the politics behind the Black Sacrament. But when a bargain is struck, it must be carried through to the end.”

            “Our bet is that the Thalmor have given Motierre the gold to hire you lot,” Brynjolf told her. “It’s all the same to us whether the Emperor lives or dies but instability’s bad for business.”

            “Don’t worry,” Rustem said as he moved into the light. Brynjolf was struck by how handsome the man was, even in late middle age, and he saw the resemblance to Korli in the shape of his eyes and nose. “The Thalmor and the Stormcloaks will be having problems of their own.”

            “So long as chaos reigns, who cares about the folk caught in the middle?” Korli asked bitterly. “You, Mother, Grandfathers Arius and Dengeir – do as you want and fuck the consequences to others.”

            “Callaina… _Korli_ , now isn’t the time,” Karliah began, only to receive a scathing blue-green glare from the Kreathling.

            “I may never get an opportunity like this. Kyne knows I couldn’t walk into Windhelm and tell my mother what I think of her.” She turned to Valerica. “I’m sorry, Listener. I’m not judging the Brotherhood, just the fucking idiot I call my father.”

            “Balgeir told me you were dead,” Rustem said in a shaky voice. “I killed him for it.”

            “No, you killed him for the sake of Hammerfell,” Korli corrected in an icy tone. “I don’t remember a lot from Cloud Ruler. But I remember you were too busy breaking your marriage vows to Mother to pay much attention to me. Uncle Irkand and Esbern were the only two who gave a shit. And guess what? One’s probably leading the Penitus Oculatus now and the other’s dead. This vengeance of yours will see a lot more innocent than deserving people dead, one of them your own damn brother.”

            “Irkand was declared Immunitas by the Emperor himself,” Valerica said quietly. “Yes, your grandfather rebelled against the Empire, Korli. Yes, I know very well that Rustem is indulging his own desires for revenge during this contract. But the contract was sealed by the Night Mother Herself. It must be concluded, consequences be damned.”

            “I know,” Korli said bitterly.

            “If it’s any consolation, Galmar Stone-Fist took a contract out on your mother,” Rustem said softly. “I didn’t have any reason to believe you were alive. If I had, I’d’ve come looking for you and taken you back to Hammerfell. Believe that.”

            “I do,” Korli said. “But believing and forgiving are two different things.”

            She rose to her feet. “I’ll be working on the next batch of cold infusions.”

            She stopped by Brynjolf, kissed his masked cheek, and went to her little alcove.

            “Now that’s out of the way,” Astrid said in her poisoned-honey voice, “Where are we going and how will we be killing Mercer?”

…

In the end, it was Astrid, Arnbjorn and Rustem who went with the Nightingales to extract vengeance for Mercer’s misdeeds. Valerica remained behind and after a quiet conversation with Vex and Delvin, approached Korli as she roughly chopped flowers and mushrooms.

            “I’m sorry about that,” Korli said softly as she swept the herbs into the cold water to soak overnight. “I spent most of my life as a landless churl of no known kin because none of my family cared enough to want me.”

            “Rustem has many regrets and failing you is one of them,” Valerica said with a sigh. “You have the right to your anger, Korli. But don’t let it blind you.”

            “How do you forgive years of neglect?”

            “I don’t know. I have a daughter who I failed. We speak sometimes but… she walks her own path.” Valerica sighed again. “So you are an alchemist?”

            “Not a great one, but good enough for what the Guild needs,” Korli replied. “Ingun Black-Briar’s better.”

            “I know. I’m actually here to sanctify the Riften Sanctuary.” Valerica smiled briefly. “Do you have any nightshade?”

            “No, but there’s a bunch growing in the cemetery,” Korli said. “The local Priestess of Arkay doesn’t tend the graves very well.”

            “I’ll fetch some after dark. Sithis gives me the ability to cloak myself in darkness but it doesn’t make me immune to the sun.” Valerica inclined her head. “Thank you, Korli, and good day.”

            It was three days before the avengers returned with Mercer’s head and the biggest pair of diamonds Korli had ever seen. She was at Goldenglow Estate, overseeing the shearing of the goats, when they came back. They were halfway drunk on Maven’s mead when she returned to the Flagon, describing the battle, and Korli hung back in the shadows to observe them. Brynjolf was nowhere to be seen, so she returned to her alcove. There was no sign of sorrow or grief, so he was probably doing something else.

            “I’m here, lass,” he said from behind her. Korli turned and there he was, clad in that pitch-black leather armour with the masked hood removed. “Bastard gave us Oblivion’s own battle. But it’s been done and someone will be taking back the Skeleton Key tomorrow. Probably Karliah – she’s the real believer of us all.”

            “I’m glad you’re back,” Korli said slowly. “If it wasn’t for you, I… don’t know. Might have married a fellow churl and gone to live in the Velothi Mountains. I wouldn’t be here with a future, that’s for certain.”

            He smiled slowly, that roguish quirk of the lips that showed the Thief. “If you did something so daft, lass, I’d have to steal you back. I saw a chance to help us both. And it worked out.”

            “I’m glad.” Korli managed a smile. “Even if I’m the only honest woman in Riften.”

            “Now, lass, we’re honest Thieves. It’s the politicians you got to watch out for.” He reached out and cupped her cheek with gloved fingers. “Since we’ve solved the problem of the Guild leaking luck and money, would you mind awfully if I spent a little time courting you?”

            Korli’s smile was real this time. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”


End file.
